


Fire and Ice

by strungoutinheavenshigh



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape Aftermath, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, no TB because fuck that, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 03:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16905006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strungoutinheavenshigh/pseuds/strungoutinheavenshigh
Summary: 'We got one. One of the Van der Lindes. Oooh this is going to be great. Can't wait for Dutch to come riding in here looking for his idiot. Surprised he ain't talked yet. Always figured Marston was soft.'





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noncon here, skip if that ain't your thing

John woke up sore and disoriented. His head pounded and for a muddled moment he thought to blame a hangover. He grappled against unknown forces for full consciousness, imagining the feeling could be likened to drowning. Eventually he really had to learn to swim. 

Time brought back hazy vision and feeling to his obviously battered body. Raising his chin from his chest pulled a groan from somewhere deep inside him. Shit. He took as deep a breath as he could to stifle the rising panic and did a mental check of himself. His hands were numb and tied above his head, leaving only the toes of his boots to help support his weight and his shoulders aching something awful. He was damp and freezing in the near complete darkness of.. some kind of basement? Dungeon? He had no idea. 

The last thing he could remember was riding out on a hunt that Dutch had all but demanded. That bastard had to be seven miles to the wind, John thought, to send him of all people on the errand. He was far from their most competent hunter, plus Charles and Arthur AND Javier had been there and available for the task. But nope. Let's just send John. Great plan. 

Pain shot through his skull once again and he tumbled back into welcome uncosciousness.

°°°

He woke violently to a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped over his head. Sputtering and gasping for air, John fought to get his bearings. 

"John Marston. How kind of you to join us."

Shit. 

That was a voice he hadn't heard many times, but he recognized it immediately. Looking up at his assailant confirmed it. 

Colm O'Driscoll himself dropped the now empty bucket and laughed, a sound like grating metal. "Why in the holy hell Dutch sent your sorry ass alone, I have no idea. But remind me to thank him when we see him." 

"Dutch ain't coming," John hardly recognized his own voice, raspier than normal from disuse. How long had he been here? "And seeing as I'm here, I doubt you know where he is."

That laugh again. Cackle more like. "Seeing as you're here, I aim to find out."

A fist connected with John's face, a promise of what was in store. His vision swam and he distantly felt warm blood pour from his re-broken nose. 

°°° 

The hours felt like years. He'd lost the small mercy of unconsciousness. Having been hoisted up higher off the ground, there was no chance of sleep. His toes just barely scraped the ground. His shoulders and wrists screamed. Colm was a vindictive man and figured out early that beating John unconscious was providing his prisoner with more relief than he felt was warranted. The extended time awake was sending the man into some degree of delirium. 

In the beginning, John had been grateful for the time alone. Alone meant he wasn't being beaten, his bones weren't being broken, old scars weren't being cut open with new ones as company. Soon, alone also came to mean no food, no water, only the pounding silence and suffocating darkness. He had no concept of time. It could've been hours or days or weeks. 

The freshly healed cuts on his face were reopened and scabbed over, the threat of infection looming over John's head. His shirt and shoes were gone and his jeans were in tatters. At least a few of his ribs had to be broken. It was so ungodly cold. Icy water clung stubbornly to his hair. Colm made sure to never let him stay dry too long. Maybe he'd get pneumonia. He was sure it would beat this. It was so cold. 

°°°

Colm strutted through his camp, satisfied with all in his world. Well. Nearly all. 

"Marston ain't talking."

"We oughtta just kill the asshole."

"Think bossman's going to give us a crack at him?"

The dissent was infuriating. He heard the comments that his men shared around the fire, and he knew the frequency at which they were shared. Marston hadn't cracked and showed no sign of doing so. He hadn't been into the basement in five days, if he didn't feed the bastard soon he'd die on them and he was no help dead. Hell, he was no help alive either but it was no secret that Colm was enjoying his quest for answers. The men could talk until their jaws fell off for all he cared. 

He chuckled and grabbed a bowl of stew from the pot, taking a seat next to Jim. 

"I think I know how to break that boy," the other man stated after minutes of quiet. Frankly, Colm figured Jim could break damn near anyone. 

He sighed heavily, "I don't doubt that, son. I'm surprised Van der Linde hasn't come storming in yet. Maybe they ain't the family we thought they was."

"Don't seem that way." Jim looked irritated but it didn't matter all that much. "Give me until sundown, boss." 

Colm looked the man hard in the eyes but he didn't flinch. Maybe it was time. He'd had his fun and was getting tired of Marston's ugly mug. "Fine."

°°°

Where the fuck was Dutch? Where was Arthur? Where was his goddamn family? John's mind was a muddled mess of pain and betrayal as his body tried to expel food that wasn't there. Acid burned his throat and made his eyes water. 

For the first time in what felt like years, he heard the trapdoor behind him swing open and closed again. Great. 

He looked up and startled more visibly than he would've liked. Not only was the man not Colm, he was also inches away from John's face. 

"I got you for a few hours now, boy." The gruffness of the voice reminded John of a time before Dutch took him in, one promising nothing but punishment. "And I mean to make the most of them."

His stomach dropped when the O'Driscoll pulled the belt from his pants. This was new. "Call me Jim, when the time comes," he said as he circled around John and out of sight. 

The belt hit his back with more force than he possibly could've anticipated. It opened cuts with every strike, and there was no shortage of strikes. He felt the blood rolling down his skin, but he was nothing if not stubborn and didn't make a sound. 

The lashes seemed to drag on forever, covering him in welts from his shoulders to the backs of his thighs. Jim hummed as if in satisfaction with his work, sending a chill down John's spine. Rough hands reached around his waist, raising every hair on his body, and started working the remnants of his pants down. John struggled as hard as he could but his hanging position restricted most of his movement, fatigue extinguished the rest. His mind was going a mile a minute. This couldn't happen. 

He opened his mouth only to have a rag shoved between his teeth. He tried to spit it out but the brute was already pulling rope around and tying it behind his head. This wasn't about answers. This wasn't about anything. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest. The sounds behind him were out of a nightmare. Cold air bit every inch of his skin but he felt himself start to sweat. 

He felt Jim tracing one of the lashes across his back. He jerked as far away as he could when he felt a hand on his ass. Jim just laughed. One hand had a grip of steel on his hip and the other was sliding into his crack. He started kneading the ring of muscle with the pad of one finger, dipping it ever so slightly before drawing back to circle again. No. 

Jim swiped his hand across his back again and John heard him spit into his palm. He had to stop this. In that moment, a finger forced itself inside of him. John's breath hitched but he refused to give this animal the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. The finger worked itself as deep as it would go. Sinking realization set in that he couldn't stop this. There was pain already, but it was manageable as he tried to breathe through it. Jim dug in with another finger far too soon, and then another. John had never particularly wanted to die before, but in this state of abuse and violation, he prayed that the ground would open up and swallow him. Or that the O'Driscolls would be bored after this and put a bullet between his eyes. Or really anything. 

The hand on his hip slipped away for a moment, leaving fresh bruises behind already. Another spit behind him. Suddenly the fingers were gone and something much larger was pressing into him. It was fire and agony and tearing and splitting. Hands came to both of his hips, pulling them back while Jim snapped his own hips up hard, burying himself to the hilt with a grunt. John screamed through the gag and felt tears in his eyes but couldn't muster the energy to care. His head lolled back down until his chin hit his chest and he let his eyes roll back. 

It was ruthless from start to finish, and lasted longer than could possibly have been necessary. John had passed out more than once, likely from blood loss. Unfortunately, he was fully awake when his assailant shuddered and unloaded into his body. He felt a hopelessness like no other, miles past being half frozen on a godforsaken mountain. Jim pulled out of him slowly, leaving John feeling filthy and used as blood and come started trickling down the insides of his thighs. 

The brute of a man stepped back in front of him, fully clothed again, and pulled the rag from his mouth. He leaned in so close that John could taste his breath and he spoke, "Now what's my name, boy?"

Nausea hit John like a train but a fist in his hair forced him to keep his head up. A threat hung in the man's gray eyes. 

"Say it."

He couldn't. He wouldnt. A hand had somehow started closing around his throat. 

"Say it, or I'll bring the rest of the boys down for a turn at that sweet ass of yours."

John's felt himself pale and his last flicker of resolve went out. He would never give up his family, but he gave up himself. 

"Jim. It's Jim. Please... Don't..." His voice was weaker than he could ever remember, trembling like a child's. 

And like that, the beast backed away. John didn't dare feel relief yet. Finally, a fist hit his face so hard that it put him under. 

°°°

Consciousness came and went. Jim had absolutely not kept his word. John could remember some of the men, others left their marks behind when he was unconscious. Colm had been down several times with his usual beatings, now always concluded with his dick twitching and spent inside of John. Everything hurt in a way he had never known. He had to be dying. It couldn't be worse than this, to let go. To escape from this constant torture. 

A few days went by without a visitor, which meant days on end without abuse-induced sleep or food. He was thoroughly exhausted. He was so damn tired. 

Gunshots rang out nearby. Up? They sounded close but far like something was covering his ears. When did breathing get so damn hard? He figured that if it hurt so bad and air came so hard, he night as well stop trying to do it. His head felt fuzzy and light. Then his vision went black.


	2. Chapter 2

John was vaguely aware of the trapdoor swinging open for the first time in days. Every breath felt like knives to his lungs, wrenching coughs from his chest. He knew this couldn't go on much longer. They'd have to kill him soon, if for no other reason than to avoid another mouth to (occasionally) feed. At least if they were fucking him, they were feeding him, but neither had happened it a while. He thought he heard a voice that sounded too much like home and chalked it up to a dream. Sleep and wakefulness tended to blur together at that point. Too many times had he thought he heard his family coming for him, lighting a flicker of hope, then realized his mind was playing cruel tricks on him. Frankly, he'd thought his mind and body would've both shut down on him long ago, but they stubbornly kept dragging him through what was left of his existence. 

He couldn't move voluntarily anymore and doubted his shoulders would ever be the same again, even if he did get busted out of this hellhole. The only times he'd laid down since they got him were when Colm wanted easier access. Once he'd simply said he wanted to see John's face while he used him. He hadn't quite understood Dutch's hang up with the man before, but the only thing clear in his mind after these weeks upon weeks was a cold, dark hatred of Colm O'Driscoll. 

He was finished. His brain kept letting him think he could hear someone finally coming for him and it was only breaking him further down. The illusion that he brought on himself by holding onto hope. A cough tore itself out of him before he could stop it, it tasted like blood. The man shouted and John was reminded that any show of weakness was an invitation for violence. He felt fingers in his hair and his blood ran cold. It always did. The repetition did nothing to detract from the fear that seized him at every touch. 

The man in front of him was muttering to himself, words that John refused to make the effort to register. It only ever made it worse; the best thing he could do was try to ignore it all. Someone else came down the stairs and panic spiked again. They never came in pairs. Light flared in the room for the first time, but he wouldn't open his eyes. Ignore it and ignore them. Change from the routine couldn't possibly mean anything good. Hands were back in his hair and on his face, maybe they were gentler than usual or maybe he had succeeded in voluntarily numbing himself. Handy trick, he figured absently. 

He wasn't prepared at all when the rope holding him up went abruptly slack, sending him to the ground in a heap. It felt like his arms had been ripped out of his shoulders. The pain wiped out all intelligible thought and brought him the only peace he knew anymore.

°°°

It didn't take long to wipe out the O'Driscolls that didn't turn tail and run. Bunch of cowards. Arthur and Charles had more or less been sent to ransack their camp and kill whoever they could. It seemed pointless, but so did a lot of what they did these days. Arthur trudged between the corpses in the house, checking them for money or ammunition or really anything of value. It wasn't much, seemed like most of the group had packed up and moved on already. 

"Arthur! Look under the house!" Charles called out from the second floor, panic in his voice. Dammit. 

He grabbed a last trinket from the table and stepped out the door. A last O'Driscoll came running at him, but he pulled his gun with calmness that almost scared himself and shot the boy between the eyes. Idiot. 

The trapdoor to the basement was locked, but it wasn't a hard lock to pick. He swung it open and was met by cold air and a smell he couldn't identify. Stepping down, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the shocking darkness. It was a big room and the early morning light wasn't proving particularly helpful. 

He sighed heavily. It could take a while to find this alleged loot. What had Charles found to send him down here? Arthur shook his head. The man worked in mysterious ways. 

His eyes finally adjusted a bit and he scanned the room. Toward the back of the room, something was hanging from the ceiling. He idly wondered if it could be a giant sack of cash and chuckled. Stepping closer nearly made him gag. There's the source of the smell. A damn body strung up by his wrists under the hideout. The man was unnervingly thin and practically nude, wearing only tattered jeans that barely clung to his hips. A tangled mess of long black hair hid the man's face, his chin dropped to his chest. That's just cruel and indecent, Arthur thought to himself. 

Suddenly a rattling cough ripped from the man, effectively scaring the hell out of Arthur. "CHRIST!" he practically shouted. 

The poor man's breathing was labored and shallow. Arthur put on hand on his shoulder, getting no response. "Alright, boy. I gotta go get a knife but I'll get you down okay? You're gonna be okay. They're dead now." He figured he was essentially talking to himself. His knife was lodged in a body just outside. 

Despite his better judgment, he crouched down a bit, curious. He heard Charles come down the stairs behind him, "Over here, got someone alive. Barely."

Arthur's brought a hand up and pushed the hair out of the way of the man's face, half wondering if he had a family looking for him. 

"Arthur-" Charles started, voice wavering a bit as he approached. 

"What?" The poor bastard was beaten with an inch of his life, nose broken and one cheek cut to bits. 

"Arthur." Charles raised his voice this time and came up next to him. "Do you... recognize him?"

"What?" Arthur repeated, confused. "I don't know if the fool's mother would recognize him in this state." But there was something bordering on familiarity that he couldn't explain. 

Charles handed him a book open to a handwritten page that he could barely even see. 

'We got one. One of the Van der Lindes. Oooh this is going to be great. Can't wait for Dutch to come riding in here looking for his idiot. Surprised he ain't talked yet. Always figured Marston was soft.'

Wait. No. 

Charles grabbed a lantern off the floor that he hadn't seen and struck a match, lighting up the room. Arthur stood and took both sides of the beaten man's face in his hands, suddenly so afraid. He carefully tilted his head up, drawing another raspy cough, and pushed all that hair aside again. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, several bruises, and unmistakable long slashes across one cheek from a wolf not so long ago. John. 

Arthur felt his heart break. He frantically started pulling off his own jacket while Charles cut him down. It had been well over a month since John went missing. He didn't look like he'd eaten in a week, and later checking of the journal Charles found would confirm his suspicion. John crumpled when the ropes were cut, his shoulders popping obscenely. He would've hit the floor hard if Arthur hadn't caught him. John moaned as the pain of the motion visibly lanced through him. Arthur winced at the sound of his brother's voice. 

"Come on. We have to take him to camp. There's nowhere else to go." Charles was right. The town doctor unfortunately wasn't an option for this. 

°°°

After a few hours of riding, they had to stop and make camp. For John's sake if not their own. The man hadn't woken up since they dragged him out of that torture chamber. Arthur slid out of his saddle and let John fall into his arms, laying him down on a bedroll. He was sweating and feverish, but there wasn't much they could do besides force water into him and let him rest. 

Arthur felt a toxic combination of sorrow and fury as he wrapped a blanket around his friend. This never should've happened, much less for so long. He sat beside Charles at the fire and tried to make rhyme or reason of what had happened. "Dutch told us he sent him scouting and the law found him," he finally said, pulling the memory from when he had confronted the older man about their missing member. 

Charles was never one to show much emotion, but Arthur saw the tension in his shoulders and the fury in his eyes. "He always had some excuse not to go after him. Things have been hectic. He just brushed it all under the rug."

"You know," Arthur sighed, "I think he mentioned needing to throw the O'Driscolls off our trail while we dealt with some other mess he made." He couldn't have, right? 

"What if this was the 'distraction' he kept talking about? He dropped it right before John went missing." Charles had a way of reading his mind. 

Arthur dropped his head into his hands. "I don't know what to think anymore, Charles. If Dutch sent Marston to them..."

"Who's to say he won't do it again? Think about it," he shook his head, hands twitching, "We haven't seen head or tail of them since he left. They didn't find us. John didn't talk. If this was on purpose, it worked exactly how Dutch would've wanted it to."

"God dammit." Arthur sat up and leaned back against the tree behind him. "Wonder what he'll say when we get back." He chuckled dryly. Maybe he'd send them off 'scouting' next for it. Charles shook his head and went to his own bedroll, leaving Arthur with his thoughts. 

So much had happened since John disappeared. Abigail gave up trying to convince the world the Jack was John's, told him one night after a few drinks that she always knew he wasn't. He'd wanted to slap the woman. That accusation, among other things, had been what sent John running for a whole damn year. Jack would grow up without a father because his mother got bored and picked someone up in town one night. It made his blood boil. Everyone had spit in John's face when he denied fatherhood left and right, no one believed him. It isolated him.

Dutch had seemed downright indifferent about him going missing, even when Hosea had decked him in frustration. They'd been like parents to John since he was 12, plucking him from the gallows and teaching him how to survive. Hosea took it hard. The two of them spent several days out hunting to blow off steam and get away from the constant reminders of his absence. 

Arthur had gone cold. He had lost one of the very few things setting him straight, showed him that there was hope in this godforsaken country. When John had been sick with fever in Colter, Arthur only left him when forced to by someone else's incompetence. Go hunt, go scouting, go check out that house, go rob a train. Bunch of idiots. He'd never been able to show the younger man the affection he felt, mostly out of cowardice. He was afraid to get too close, to let anyone in, but John had been steadily chipping away at him recently. They hunted together, sharing tents and beds in the cold, they teamed up on missions, they found solace in each other's company.

He'd been so angry after John ran away, but deep down, a part of him understood. Letting go had been the hardest part. Then he came back. He came back a year older, a year harder, a year colder. He'd changed, he was angrier. All Arthur knew to do was shove down relief and be angry back. When the anger died, they were closer than they'd ever been. He would always deny the effect that the fire behind John's eyes had on him, but maybe that's why he fed into that anger. It brought the spark he knew out from under a mountain of self-imposed guilt. 

Now? He was laid out in Arthur's tent, sweating and shaking like he could die at any moment. They'd brought Colm's journal with them. Once he'd read enough of it, he refused to hand it back over to Charles. Chicken scratch handwriting detailed weeks of abuse until it escalated into unadulterated, repeated and ruthless, violation of this man who had once blown someone's head into pieces for pursuing a girl after she said no. Arthur hated himself for reading it, but there was the time he lost with John in excruciating detail. Part of him needed to know the damage; he needed to know how to fix it. He knew it had been eight days since John had eaten, more than that since he'd slept of his own accord, and that gave him a place to start. 

°°°

The cramping in his shoulders woke John from the longest uninterrupted sleep he'd had in far too long. Waking up was a confusing process. It took a minute to figure out that he was even laying down instead of strung up. He didn't dare open his eyes just yet. It wasn't a table or a wooden floor underneath him, but something softer. Something was wrapped around him but it gave easily. Experimentally, he curled and uncurled his fingers, finding that they had feeling somehow. And he was warm. No. He was hot. He was sweating and clammy and hot. Maybe they stuck him in an oven. 

"Gotta get moving soon here," came a voice nearby. A voice he knew. He had to still be dreaming. 

"Yeah. Do you think he can wake up enough to ride? I know it's not easy with someone in front of you." Also familiar. 

"I'll manage if he ain't up in a bit." Alright. He pinched his thigh as hard as he could and it hurt. A lot. He must've opened a cut because then there was something warm and wet on his fingers.

It took too much effort to pry his eyes open and doing so didn't yield much at first. The world around him was blurred and bright. When was the last time he saw natural light? Smelled horses and nature around him? Heard birds chirping and a river rushing? Frustrated, he squeezed his eyes shut and blinked a few times, bringing things into focus. 

Arthur goddamn Morgan was sitting on the ground beside him, looking at him with saucers for eyes. His brain was still catching up to what he was seeing. Charles was leaned against a tree a few feet away, feeding his horse. Was he dead? Maybe they all died. How long had it been? 

"Mar- John." Arthur called his attention softly. "You're out. They're gone and you're out." 

Out? Relief washed over him in waves at the realization that he was indeed awake, and alive, and not in that basement anymore. He tried to speak but could only cough violently, sending bolts of pain through his chest. Arthur had so much concern in his eyes, an expression John had missed deeply. His body ached and screamed but he was so relieved he could sing. If his voice would work. "I- Ar-," more coughing and wheezing that didn't sound like him. He struggled to push himself partially seated against a tree beside him, ignoring his body's objections. Getting upright made it easier to breathe. Another coughing fit punctuated that thought but cleared his throat. When he found his voice, he barely recognized it. "'Bout time, Morgan, shit."

Arthur laughed around a lump in his throat and fought the urge to pull him into a hug that would do his broken ribs no favors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me some love ❤


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to camp wasn't particularly long but it was hard on John. He knew Arthur felt his hands shaking where they were bunched in his shirt. There hadn't been time at their makeshift camp to get cleaned up and the longer the filth lingered on his skin, the worse he felt. It was probably safe to assume that they couldn't gauge what all had happened from the look of him, but the dried blood trailing up his thighs was a constant reminder. An itchy one at that. They rode in silence and John was grateful. He didn't have the first idea what to expect when he got back. 

Like he read his mind, Arthur slowed his horse to a trot, nerves stitched into his brow. "So, John," he started, "I figure you ought to know before we get there that Dutch... Well um. He didn't ever send any of us after you. Explained away the way he does, said the law had you."

John's heart sank. "Okay. So don't expect a welcome committee I guess."

"Yeah," he could hear the sorrow in his friend's voice and had to hope that he wasn't blaming himself for this mess. 

"It ain't your fault, Arthur. You-," his voice wavered and threatened to break. "You saved my life." He let his forehead drop to Arthur's shoulder. It was true, there wasn't much time left for him. His vision swam and a wave of nausea washed over him as if to remind him that he wasn't all the way out of the woods yet. He knew he was running a fever, saw the blood hit the ground when he coughed. Too much could still be wrong, but he had to tough it out until he could go to a real doctor. 

"What would I be doing if I wasn't saving your hide?" Arthur teased, pulling him from his thoughts. There was no malice behind the words. 

John ribbed the man gently. They were at the entrance to the camp and he could practically feel the anxiety rolling off of Arthur in waves. "It'll be fine," he assured him. 

Sean was keeping watch, much to Arthur's chagrid. "Oi! Whatcha got there, Morgan?" He had the decency to look concerned at least, trying to see around Arthur's broad frame. 

"Good to see ya, Sean," John forced through his teeth, aching badly by the time the horse slowed to a walk. 

Sean's jaw dropped. "Marston? Bloody hell, what 'appened to ye?" 

"Gotta get him to Grimshaw," Arthur grunted in place of an answer. He hitched his horse at the edge of camp and carefully helped John dismount. 

People were milling around, business as usual, and hadn't yet noticed the three men coming back in. Arthur and Charles each slung an arm over their shoulders just as John felt his legs give out. 

"Miss Grimshaw!" Charles called out when he caught sight of the woman. "We need some help here!"

Susan whipped around at the words, ready to chastise these damn boys and their inability to do anything on their own. John swore he could see the insults die on her lips when she saw him. There was a first time for everything, he supposed. 

"Oh my- How did- What's-," she sputtered, taking in the sight of a John Marston she hardly recognized. "Get him inside! Now!" 

John didn't feel particularly connected to his body as he was half-carried and half-stumbled into the house they were camped in. He felt people's eyes on him and was grateful for the jacket Arthur had loaned him. Susan prepped a cot for him and started rummaging through a medicine bag. Charles and Arthur sat him on the bed and he leaned back against the wall. 

"Now you boys git!" she ushered the men out of the room and John let her, not wanting them anywhere nearby for this exam he knew was coming. "You get out of those rags and lay it on me, no sugar-coating, Marston."

There was a sea of worry in the high-strung woman's face. He gingerly slid the jacket off his shoulders and worked off what was left of his pants, noticing that he still didn't have shoes on. Susan looked up and winced slightly, but composed herself and went back to picking out medicines. 

John heaved a sigh that hurt his chest and rattled on the exhale, getting another look from the woman. Oops. He started going down the list: being tied by the wrists almost constantly, the beatings, the deepest of the cuts, the suspicion of broken ribs, the days without food, on and on for what felt like hours. 

She brought a few tonic bottles and placed them on the nightstand, giving him a stern look. "Anything else?" her tone was accusatory but he knew it came from a place of concern. 

"I, uh... Well they..." His heart was pounding in his chest. "I... I'm sorry, Susan. I just.. I can't." She nodded like she understood, like that was all the answer she needed. 

"Take those and I'll fill up a bath," she said, then turned and left. 

Disgust knotted John's stomach. He'd never felt so filthy and used. The tonics tasted like bark but he drank them all, plus the water that she had mercifully left. He was finally free and safe and grateful for it, but a needling voice at the back of his mind told him that it would've been better for everyone if he'd died in that basement. 

The bath was painful and sobering. Hot water was a relief, watching it turn pink and brown from blood and dirt was not. He scrubbed himself until his skin was raw and still didn't feel clean. Despite the warmth of the bath, he felt himself getting cold. Dread climbed up his throat and manifested itself as he threw up stomach acid into the water bucket. 

Susan must have heard him because she knocked twice and came in without waiting for a response. He had barely finished dry heaving when a familiar darkness ebbed into the corners of his vision. 

"I uh-," was all he managed before he felt himself slipping unconscious. He heard Susan yelp and shout for Arthur while she hooked her arms under his, keeping him from slumping underwater. 

°°°

John went from bad to worse, and fast. It scared the living hell out of Arthur. He only left the man when forced to, and it reminded him of Colter, all those months ago. Most of the time, he was asleep. He groaned and thrashed and cried through what Arthur figured had to be gruesome nightmares. When he was awake, they gave him as much food, water, and medicine as he could stomach. The waiting around made Arthur feel useless, but he couldn't bear to leave him. Listening to the rattle in John's chest made him want to scream. He'd stopped coughing up blood after a few days, but that rattle was incessant.

After a week, Hosea came in. He looked worse than Arthur felt, gray and visibly pained to see the man that was like a son to him. "What did they do to the poor boy?" he asked after he dropped heavily into a chair. 

"Well, Hosea," Arthur had grunted, "They did damn near everything to him." He wouldn't say anything beyond that to anyone, out respect for his privacy. 

Charles stopped in several times, usually just sitting quietly. Sometimes he brought some homemade concoctions of herbs that were supposed to help. 

The rest of the gang shied away from just the idea of the man, having seen him when he got to the camp. Abigail asked him once if John was okay and it took all of his willpower not to laugh. 

Dutch. Dutch never came and never asked. Arthur could only hope that it was guilt keeping him away. Hosea surely passed on what little he knew, but it seemed like their leader just didn't care. 

°°° 

"How's your bitch healing up, Morgan?" Micah taunted from the fire nearby. Arthur had been resting against a carriage wheel, minding his own damn business for fuck's sake. 

"Shut up, Micah. Before I make you." He was sick and tired of the man. Even more so after seeing him with Dutch all hours of the day, muttering about who knows what. 

"Never took you for a queer, Morgan! But hell I can't blame you I s'pose, the boy's pretty enough." Arthur was on his feet and walking over before his brain caught up to up body. "I bet he takes it real good, too. Wanna confirm or should I go find out 'fore he wakes up?" He hit Micah hard enough to dislocate his jaw, knocking him to the ground with a grunt. 

"I said. Shut up. Micah." he punctuated each word with his first, spitting on his face before storming away. Goddamn fuckin' asshole. Dutch would give him hell for that but he didn't care. He was starting to think it might be time to cut and run, but not until he figured out who else was on this side of a very obvious camp division.

He stepped into his tent and let the flaps fall shut. Laying on the bed, he tried to slow his racing mind. He genuinely hated Micah, especially when he was halfway right about anything. Despite his father's best efforts to beat the "unnatural inclination" out of him, he reached his thirties with little to no interest in women. 

Generally speaking, he didn't have interest in much of anyone. So when John Marston had grown into a man who made a dangerous heat coil in his stomach, he was as surprised as anyone. Of course, no one else knew about it. He kept it close to his chest and took care with every word he said. Over time, he'd tried to force away or drown out his feelings for his friend with no such luck. He was plenty happy to admire from afar and take what he could get, friendship was miles better than nothing. 

The reality was simply that he wasn't good for the people he loved. Yes, he loved John regardless, but whenever he progressed things past friendship with anyone, it all went to hell in a handbasket. He couldn't risk the relationship they'd built over the last decade. John had confided in him before about preferring the company of men, so to speak, so Arthur gave him the advice that he had never received. 

"There ain't nothin' unnatural about love, Johnny Boy, don't matter if it's a man or a woman." He'd gotten socked in the arm for the nickname, but John deserved the chance to be happy with someone. Arthur knew from experience that lack of acceptance would do nothing but hinder that happiness. Sometimes he wondered if John felt the same way about him, particularly after lingering touches or gazes, but refused to let himself get his hopes up. He sighed and rolled over, letting sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Micah's a dickweed.  
> Sean is Irish and I am Not Sure how to translate an accent into text.  
> Comments and kudos keep me cranking out chapters! 😘


	4. Chapter 4

Two and a half weeks after riding back into camp, John's fever broke. The fog that had settled in his brain cleared. Grimshaw had mentioned that he was showing signs of pneumonia a few days prior and sent some of the boys into town to fetch better medicine. He hated feeling like an expense to the gang, but there wasn't much he could do about that for some time. The medicine helped, stifled the coughing and the rattling in his chest, letting him breathe properly after what felt time a lifetime. 

After the fever broke, he wore the woman down until she let him leave the room he'd been sequestered to. The weather outside was mild and Christ had he missed the breeze on his face. He limped to the edge of the camp and settled on a fallen tree trunk, looking out over the mountains. It had been months since he'd gotten any time alone. His shoulders were still stiff, ribs were sore, and bruises lingered, but they had all recovered far beyond anything he'd expected. The rest of his injuries were well on the way to mended. Before long, the only signs left of the abuse would be violent memories. Despite the rest he'd gotten, he was still exhausted and drained. Nightmares plagued his dreams and vivid flashbacks snuck up on him when he was awake. He did his best to hide the effect it had all had on his mind, still afraid to show any weakness. Against his best efforts, he caught himself reflexively jerking away from people touching him, fighting down spikes of fear. He knew he was safe here, but seemed to be unable to snap out of this crude survival mode. 

Abigail came up behind him and sat down, pulling John from his thoughts. He subtly inched away from her and fought the urge to flinch when she put a hand on his shoulder. She looked at him with pity that made his stomach churn. "John Marston, I am so sorry."

Sorry? He didn't tell her where she could shove her sorry, opting for a shrug instead. "It's fine. How'd Jack get on?" He knew that boy wasn't his, couldn't be. Being Abigail's scapegoat was something he had never asked for or invited, but it was always her word against his. He couldn't exactly walk around telling people he'd never slept with the woman and expecting them to believe him, not after all the nights they shared a tent. 

"He missed you. But John, I..." She sighed and took her hand away, not noticing the tension that drained from the man when she withdrew. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry and I won't be pushing this on you any longer. I never wanted it to be like this. You know I was just scared is all."

He wasn't the kid's father, but he wasn't the type to walk away from a child either. "I still love the kid, Abigail. You know I do. I'll do my part to help out, but I still ain't going around claiming he's mine."

"I know," she turned away sheepishly. "I already told Arthur and a couple others the truth, Lenny, Hosea, Dutch, Charles. I'm trying to do right by you." A pang shot through John's chest. He wasn't sure if this would change anything, but maybe it would be enough to get him some trust back. They'd all seemed to turn on him when Abigail started hurling accusations. 

"Thank you," he mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear. They sat quietly for a minute, then she gathered herself and left without a word. 

He sat alone until the sun started setting and the air got nippy. By no means was he looking for anything even resembling that bone-deep cold he'd been stuck in for over a month. Glancing around, he saw that only Arthur and Lenny were sitting at the campfire. Micah was prowling around antagonizing the women, but seemed to be content where he was, leaned against the house. Cold wind bit at his face and he heaved himself to his feet. 

When he approached, Arthur shoved a pile of his things aside and cleared a space for him. Firelight flickered in the older man's eyes. John carefully sat down, basking in the warmth of the fire and the comfort of his friend's presence. Lenny looked anxious, fidgeting with a chunk of wood he'd picked up off the ground.

"Alright, John?" he asked softly. John smiled, he was a good kid. One of the rare folks who truly cared about the wellbeing of everyone around him. 

"Doing better, Grimshaw made damn sure of it." Arthur chuckled beside him and Lenny graced him with a toothy smile. 

"Well good!" He handed him a piece of whatever meat he'd been cooking. "Ain't been the same around here without you."

"That's the damn truth!" Micah's voice was suddenly right behind John. He felt his back go rigid and a chill run down his spine. "Why it's been downright peaceful! I don't know about you boys but I've been having a time! How was your extended stay with the enemy, Johnny? Hope they didn't weasel into that thick head of yours." 

John saw a flash of red and closed his eyes for a beat, "How about you fuck off, Micah? Don't you think they would've found you all if that was what happened?"

"Alls I know is that six weeks is a mighty long time, Marston. The last thing Dutch needs right now is vermin in his camp." Dutch. He still hadn't seen the man. 

"You trying to get your ass kicked again?" Arthur growled, glaring at Micah. It was a look that John sincerely hoped would never be aimed at him. He'd assumed it had been Arthur who had beaten the bastard black and blue. 

Micah threw up his hands, "Not looking for a fight, Morgan. Just for the security of the camp." Arthur scowled at the man's retreating frame, looking like he'd just taken a bite of something rancid. 

The three of them chatted peacefully after that. Arthur was teasing him about something when Lenny excused himself, but John was having trouble paying attention to the words. It hit him suddenly just how much he'd missed the older man. The golden hair that was somehow always clean and swept out of his face, the hard lines of his brow, the way his entire face lit up when he laughed. He made a mental note to do his best to make him smile more often. Locked up in the dark, the only thing that kept him going was the hope that Arthur would come for him. Then he did, saved his life for the umpteenth time. John was practically basking in his presence. Heat radiated off of him that seemed more potent than the fire, he knew things weren't great at camp but Arthur still sat with him and smiled and drank. This proximity to anyone else in the camp would have made him jumpy, but somehow Arthur made him feel safe. 

A familiar feeling warmed John's chest, one that he'd tried to suppress and ignore for years but always stubbornly returned. He shifted his gaze away from Arthur, suddenly aware that he'd been staring. Arthur made no comment, if he even noticed it at all. The man could be so dense. He had such a talent for seeing the big picture, but somehow failed repeatedly to see what was right in front of his face. John had passed the point of being able to deny that he had feelings for the man, feelings that threatened to bubble to the surface at any given opportunity. Sitting at the fire, feeling Arthur's arm flush against his, the comfortable silence around them, was all starting to feel like too much of an opportunity. 

John cleared his throat abruptly, snapping them both out of a trance. He regretted it immediately, but he couldn't trust himself not to do something stupid. Like blurt out that he loved him. Or something. "I should probably go get some sleep, Susan'll have my head." 

A strange expression flickered across Arthur's face, he would've missed it had he not been paying attention. "You bunking back up with Abigail?" he asked, voice huskier than normal. 

John barked a humorless laugh, "Hell no, I got nothing left to say to her. Damn woman can't even look me in the eye." The only reason he had for maintaining any relationship with her anymore was to be around Jack. She'd mentioned telling Arthur the truth. He would understand. 

"Well," there was that expression again. Not quite fear, John thought, still not able to place it. "If you ain't trying to sleep on Grimshaw's cot anymore... Well I got room." 

John's heart thumped in his chest. He opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. 

"Okay, Jesus, Marston. Don't go gettin' all wishy washy on me now. Come on." He helped John stand up and walked him to his tent. 

When he pulled back the tent flaps, John couldn't keep himself from laughing, "We sure did just let you have all this space didn't we, princess?" He could recall countless nights in Abigail's tent with her and Jack, the three of them packed like sardines. 

Arthur flushed at the nickname, "Shut up and lay down before you collapse on me." He lightly pushed John onto the cot. 

John cocked an eyebrow at him when he started pulling out his shaving supplies, earning a middle finger in his face. He chuckled and laid down, watching Arthur swipe the razor across his skin. Somehow, he managed to pull off a clean shave as well as he did the full mountain man beard. The sight before him shouldn't have made heat coil low in his stomach. John grimaced at himself and rolled over, waiting for sleep to come. 

The lamp flickered out after a few minutes and he heard Arthur tugging off his boots and shirt. Christ. The last thing he'd expected was for the man to crawl onto the bed behind him. "Ain't another bedroll," he said as means of an explanation. 

John was afraid Arthur would feel his heart racing and tried to adjust his position without disturbing the man. After several rolls back and forth, Arthur draped an arm over him and pulled John's back against his chest. "Stop movin'," he grumbled sleepily. 

John was distantly aware that the closeness should have flipped a panic switch inside him, but found himself relaxing into the warmth surrounding him. He felt Arthur breathing against his hair, the weight of his arm, the broad expanse of his bare chest. It simultaneously excited and soothed him. Ultimately, lingering exhaustion won him over and he slept without dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short and mostly sweet!  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set a couple weeks after the last chapter for the sake of progression

Frustration dug deep lines into Dutch's face as Micah blathered on about some nonsense that was, quite frankly, the least of his concerns. He needed to figure out the best way to approach John before too much time went on. Hell, it had already been weeks and the boy was back on his feet somehow. He watched from the window of his room in the house as he reintegrated himself into the camp. This was the only contingency he hadn't planned for. After a few days, he'd confidently assumed that the O'Driscolls had picked him up and that he wouldn't be getting back out. Turned out he was only half right. They had picked up camp and moved without a trace of their rival gang, all had gone as expected. Of course he knew that Marston was nothing if not loyal, he'd raised the boy on the principle. He didn't give them up, and after a month, well it seemed all but certain that he wouldn't be coming back.

It had pained him to send John on a suicide mission, he was like a son to him, but it came down to do or die. To sacrifice one man or to lose the whole camp, shelter, money, people and all. It had indeed pained him, but the decision came easily. All the while, Micah had been a strange sort of support. It seemed to be his lot in life to be doubted at every turn, particularly by Hosea and Arthur, the two he held most dear. They had been asking questions and not getting answers for long enough, he supposed, and took their frustration out on him. That rift had been what prompted him to call on Micah. The man was an insufferable ass the large majority of the time, but he was honest, clever, and brutal, qualities that appeared to be in short supply. He had eased his guilt after he sent John on his way, assuring him that it was the right move, and provided a steady stream of advice and leads ever since.

"I'm telling you, Dutch," Micah sneered, pulling him from his thoughts. "Something ain't right about all this. You know Colm wouldn't up and leave any living man of ours behind without a reason. We gotta watch the bastard, make sure we're all safe, or you did all that for nothing."

It was a fair point, one that had been ruminating at the back of his mind. Seemed a logical conclusion that Colm had an ulterior motive in this, he thought, but some of his men clearly hadn't reached it. Out on the grass, John was mixing herbs with Charles, looking thoroughly confused by what he was doing. "Then watch him we shall," he conceded, "But you know as well as I do that antagonizing him is no solution."

Micah grimaced, "Guess I oughta work on that. Reckon you'll talk to him soon?" 

"Sooner rather than later, the last thing I need is more suspicion around here."

°°°

How Charles had this instinctive knowledge of plants and how to use them was a mystery to John. Most of them looked the same, but eat the wrong thing and you'd be a goner. It always stressed him out when he had to pick them himself. "Where the hell'd you learn all this?" he asked after a lecture on oleander and how it could kill him.

"Here and there," Charles said, not looking up from the bowl he was stirring. "Mostly from living with my mother's tribe. I was young but it was essential for all of us when food and supplies ran low more often than not. After the army came through, my father and I didn't have much left. He turned to drink and I took care of him until I couldn't anymore, ran away when I was 12 and got picked up by a gang up north."

It was a story John could empathize with, to an extent. "My pa paid a woman and got her pregnant, she died having me. Wouldn't have made much difference for me if he had too. Alls he did drink and fight, got himself blinded in a bar fight actually. He died when I was 8 and I got stuck in an orphanage for a while." He grimaced slightly, it wasn't exactly a pleasant story. Still, Charles was watching him and John saw no judgment in the other man's eyes. "Busted out of there and got myself into more trouble than I could handle, robbing and killing before I could read and write. Some homesteaders were halfway to stringing me up by the neck when Dutch found me."

"Dragged him to Hosea and me, kicking and spitting the whole way," Arthur teased as he approached. "What were you, 11 or 12?"

John smiled at the memory. After all the shit he'd put up with as a kid, Dutch and Hosea had treated him like a son. They taught him to read, write, hunt, shoot straight. "Somethin' like that. You were too high and mighty for the likes of me back then, too." Arthur has been 22 when he was 12, that decade between them never felt bigger than when the young man could pick him up off the ground and throw him for being a pest. 

"In my defense," Arthur chuckled, "You were a nuisance like no other. Damn near bit my finger off a couple times." He'd been so angry at the world, raised with no guidance and he had sure as shit acted like it. His ears went warm at the reminder. 

Charles laughed along, herbs forgotten. "I forget how long you two have ridden with Dutch. I can safely say I can't imagine Hosea a day younger than he is now."

"Aw hell. You wouldn't believe how much Hosea pulled about 14 years ago! The old coot himself in his prime. I saw it and still hardly believe it." John's cheeks ached from laughing at the man's expense. 

"I've got a picture from right before Johnny here came along," Arthur supplied when he got his breath back, "I'll have to show you sometime." 

Charles smiled and nodded, turning his attention back to whatever they'd distracted him from making. John watched Arthur light a cigarette and take a drag, shaking head slightly. He'd basically moved into the older man's tent, against his better judgment. Since then, he had unintentionally picked up on more of Arthur's tics and habits. He surely didn't need to notice him even more than before, but there he was. The only exceptions to them sharing a bed had been the few nights when one of them would stumble in late, drunk as a skunk, and pass out on the ground. He had thought that maybe it would calm his raging emotions to demystify Arthur, seeing him grump around in the morning, finding out that he snored after he drank... No such luck. He was surprised, and selfishly grateful, that he hadn't complained about sleeping together. They'd done it before, sure, but never this consistently. Abigail had taken it on herself to give Jack his bedroll after he disappeared, so there weren't exactly other options. But still.

"Marston! Wake up you fool," Arthur stuck an elbow in his ribs, effectively pulling him out of his head. 

"I'm awake! You're lucky those ain't still bruised." 

Arthur just laughed at him, "Did you hear me then?" Shit. 

"Uh," he said eloquently, but Arthur was already standing up. 

"Come on, we're going hunting." He paused while John moved to join him, "Unless you ain't up for it yet?" 

John punched him in the shoulder for that. Asshole. "Shut up. Course I'm up for it. You know how damn bored I've been?" Other than some stiffness and aches, the time since he got Grimshaw to let up had him near completely healed. He was up and moving without problems, practically waiting for someone to invite him to do something. Anything. The inactivity gave him too much time to remember.

"Well come on then, kiddo." John scowled at the nickname but followed the man out. 

°°°

Charles watched the men leave with a smile. They were a couple of idiots, without a doubt. How they both overlooked each other was beyond him, even he could see the way they practically fell over themselves to be together. He trusted that they would get there eventually, it was none of his business anyway. As soon as they left, he glanced over to the house to see if Dutch and Micah were still watching. They weren't being quite as discreet as they thought. Dutch always seemed to be watching recently, but he knew the man still hadn't spoken to John. The whole lot of it was suspicious. He was fairly convinced that he and Arthur had hit the nail on the head about how exactly they'd lost one of their own for so long without any semblance of an explanation or a single search party. This behavior was doing nothing to change his mind.

There was a definitive split through the camp, they'd almost subconsciously created factions. Dutch and Micah had twisted Bill and Javier around their fingers, along with a few others. He knew of John, Arthur, Lenny, and himself on the opposite end, collectively referred to as the skeptics by Dutch. Blind loyalty tended to end poorly, he thought. This was a perfect example of that. People had gotten comfortable and listened to him like they always had, not thinking to doubt anything he said. They could do what they wanted, but he couldn't go on following a man ruled by greed, preaching under the guise of principle. 

He glared at Micah when he caught his eye through the glass and moved from his spot, preferring not to be scrutinized without cause. Hosea was at the opposite edge of camp with his nose in a book. Charles smiled again at the idea of the man in his youth, it was still hard to imagine. He walked over and took a seat, not saying anything until Hosea sighed and closed his book.

"They still up in that window?" he asked, a tired look in his eyes.

Charles found himself surprised, but knew he shouldn't have been. "I guess I should've assumed you'd noticed that by now. They were when I came over here, not much to see over there anymore though."

He had always known Hosea to look younger than his years, but slumped against that tree with that look on his face betrayed months of frustration and betrayal. "I don't know which way's up anymore, my boy. In all the years I've known Dutch, I've never seen him like this. He's paranoid. Suspicious. Has been for a while but it's gotten worse..." he trailed off.

"Since we got John." Charles finished the thought for him. "Did he ever give you a straight answer? I'd never seen him so quick to let someone go. I don't even remember anyone going to look." He knew he was being blunt, but it was on both of their minds. They'd spent enough time trying to figure it out individually, in his opinion.

"Never anything straight, no. More or less told me to forget about him," he chuckled mirthlessly. "As if I could do that. That boy's like my son. I don't know what happened, but I know it wasn't good and I doubt Dutch is entirely innocent. He plays a good hand but I know his tells."

Charles looked around to make sure no one (Micah) was eavesdropping. He and Dutch had both come outside, standing too far away to hear them but Micah was glaring daggers at him. "We'll figure it out if we can," he said. "If we can't, though. Have you ever thought about leaving?" And there was the million dollar question.

Hosea swiped a hand down his face with a sigh. "Not until recently. Do me a favor though, Charles, and keep me in the loop. Nothing means more to me than the pair of those boys." 

°°°

After loading up two deer and a few rabbits, John's shoulders were aching something awful but the sense of gratification outweighed the pain. Besides that, he wasn't about to complain about it to Arthur. Not when he was finally out of the camp and doing something productive. They weren't far out so the ride back was quicker than he would've liked.

"One of these days we'll make a decent hunter of you, Johnny," Arthur teased as they approached. "If I could figure it out, I'm sure you can. Charles can help you with that bow." 

He knew how to use a bow, it was just straining muscles that hadn't been used other than to hang off of in a while. "I can hunt fine, Morgan. Brought down more than a couple of rabbits, didn't I?"

"Seems that way, if you're sure you didn't just find them lying around."

"Shut up!" he huffed, but Arthur just laughed. They'd fallen back into the incessant teasing with surprising ease. He was just glad Arthur wasn't treating him like he was broken, even after seeing the changes in his behavior. Granted, he'd gotten less jumpy around the rest of the gang, but he knew the older man had noticed the way he shied away from people in his space and locked up when they touched him. He sure felt broken sometimes.

They pulled into the camp to see Dutch outside giving one of his speeches. John didn't mean to be bitter, but after several weeks of Dutch either ignoring or avoiding him, he couldn't really help it. He hitched his horse, giving her a pat on the neck, and slung the deer over his shoulder. The thing was heavy and goddamn was he sore. 

"John! Good to see you're back at it, pulling your weight around here!" Dutch called out, smiling like all was right in the world.

He felt anger boiling up and started to say something, but Arthur put a hand on his back and nudged him in the other direction. "Not here, not now. Let's get these to Pearson." Not a fucking word since he got back and that's the first thing Dutch says? He drags himself to Pearson's tent and drops the animal on a table. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped at no one in particular. Arthur's hand was still on his back, keeping him grounded.

"Just leave it... For now at least."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> build up build up build up


	6. Chapter 6

John was well aware that he had to watch his mouth when to spoke to Dutch for the time being, but it was no easy task. The older man had apparently decided that his plan was to act like nothing had happened. He went on giving speeches and rattling on about big plans to get them the fortune they needed. It was a load of shit. 

"There will be a passenger train headed north, through unwatched territory and with minimal protection no less!" he exclaimed, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "We're going to put together a crew to hit it hard and fast between destinations. If my lead is good, and it is indeed, we'll have a good haul from this one! I need Bill, Arthur, Micah, and John. If you're up for it that is, boy."

John waved off the obviously false concern. As pissed as he was, he was excited to actually work a job. This one seemed a good a plan as any of Dutch's were anymore, even if a bit vague. As much as he'd come to enjoy hunting trips, they were far from him specialty. It felt wrong to shoot a thing that couldn't shoot back, however idiotic it was. He figured he was alright physically to go out by then. It sounded relatively low impact, and he had a feeling he'd need some money to his name before long. 

"We ride out tonight," Dutch finished his spiel and walked off with Micah in tow. The two of them were quite a pair. 

The crowd on the lawn dissipated slowly, people wandering off to eat or clean or drink. He had a some time to kill and decided he could take over the watch post from Sadie. That woman was undoubtedly one of the most competent people he'd ever met, come a long way since they scooped her up in the mountains. She could shoot and ride well enough to rival any one of them. He admired her for a number of reasons, hell, could've easily taken a fancy to her in another life. 

"Mrs. Adler," he said as he approached, and of course she didn't startle. "Want me to take over here for a while?"

She flashed a cunning smile. "Sure, Marston. Ain't much to see out here is there?" She tossed the gun to him and by some miracle he actually caught it. He got enough racket for his clumsiness and had been doing his damnedest to work on it. 

"'Fraid not. Camp's supposed to be out of the way though so I'd hope there's not all that much foot traffic." 

Sadie just shrugged, unimpressed with the lot of it, and walked back to camp. Strange woman. He leaned against the tree she'd been posted at and pulled a tin of gun oil from his bag, wiping the rust from the repeater. The quiet around him supplied the space to think over the last few days, now that the O'Driscoll situation didn't haunt every thought he had. Whatever was going on with Dutch was more immediately pressing. Namely the fact that everyone in the camp knew that Micah was a raging dick, but somehow he'd gotten to be their second-in-command. He and Dutch hadn't been that close before by any means. To his disappointment, Hosea wasn't around all that much since he got to recuperating. The few times he'd seen him had been blurred by fever and he wasn't ashamed to say he missed the man. For all he knew, he'd been the only thing keeping Dutch from coming completely unraveled. Micah was undoubtedly making matters worse than they already were, other people finally catching onto the madness in the camp was a bad sign. The lot of them would follow blindly and plead ignorance at any opportunity. Arthur, Charles, and a handful of others were the exception, and they'd gotten more brazen with their dissent. It was a nice change of pace not to feel like he was talking to a brick wall whenever he brought up his concerns.

A branch suddenly snapped loudly behind him and the shitstain himself walked around the tree he was leaning on. He scowled at the unwanted company, "The hell do you want?"

Micah paused, looking behind John toward the camp, then stepped closer to him. "Marston, Marston, Marston. Maybe I could ask you the same! What exactly are we all supposed to think of the O'Driscolls leaving you after they got you? A stroke of luck?"

John raised an eyebrow at the lunatic, not sure if that even warranted an answer. "Luck? Expect that they thought I was a dead man. I don't know what your problem is, but it ain't with me, Bell."

Micah snarled and shoved him hard against the tree by his jacket, taking him by surprise and knocking the gun to the dirt. "I reckon it is with you, Marston. Now, ol' Dutch ain't sure yet, but me? I think they let you get out with your scalp for a reason. And you see, I don't got no respect for a turncoat." 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, old man." Bark was digging into his back and he reached up to push the bastard off of him. It seemed his reflexes weren't quite back to capacity because instead he got hands around his throat, blocking his airway and threatening to bruise. It caught him completely off guard and his clawing at Micah's hands got him little give. The man had a grip of steel, he'd give him that. 

"You got sent out there for a reason, Johnny Boy," he growled, his face bright red. "Now you'd best be tellin' the truth or you might find yourself left behind again. You hear me, boy?" 

John tried to gasp and nodded quickly, his lungs starting to burn since he hadn't exactly had time to think to take a breath. Micah smiled wide, showing his teeth and the absence of emotion behind his eyes. "Good boy. Behave yourself now, and not a word of this. For the sake of your own hide." He let go of John's throat and the younger man dropped to his knees, coughing and panting. Micah bent over and spoke right in his ear, soft enough that he could barely hear, "I can be a lot less forgiving, lest we forget." He planted a smack on his back and the asshole strutted off like nothing had happened. 

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, rubbing his neck. He slowly recovered from practically coughing up a lung and his mind reeled. He'd known the man was cruel, but goddamn. No doubt he'd be sporting some unpleasant bruises. And what he'd said... 'Sent out there for a reason' could really only mean a few things and all of them made his stomach churn. Then the cherry on top of it all, the threat of being left again. If Micah wasn't pulling that out of his ass and Dutch had, what, sacrificed him? If it was true, he needed to start seriously getting himself real lost, real fast. 

°°°

Arthur saw the self-righteous look on Micah's weasel face and immediately knew that something was wrong. The man was never so pleased with himself otherwise. He was coming in from the trail to the road. Stifling the urge to preemptively put a fist in the older man's face, he headed down the trail toward one of the guard posts. Said guard was leaned against a tree, gun propped up and hat in hand. Only John kept that much hair that unkempt, he thought while a smile. It really had gotten long, didn't look like he'd gotten around to trimming it when he got back, so it fell just past his shoulders in tangled mess. 

"Alright there, John?" he called, just loud enough to be heard across the distance. 

John lifted his head while rubbing at his neck. "Yeah, fine," the response was hoarse and strained. "Just goddamn Micah."

"Aw shit. What now?" he moved comfortably into John's space and noticed the green and yellow ring around his neck. "What-." 

John cleared his throat, "Nothin' good. Said a couple things that were either crazy or a real big problem thought." He paused, anxiety painted on his face. "He pretty much said that, er... Dutch sent me out for a reason when the O'Driscolls got me and to watch myself or it could happen again." 

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. That was the only further confirmation he needed. "Jesus, John. I had a hunch but didn't want to think that Dutch would do a thing like that." 

"Micah's had it out for me since we picked him up and now he's in there feeding the shit to Dutch all the damn time. I ain't seen him without the bastard perched on his shoulder since I got back." He was right, of course. Micah never made it a secret that they both made his skin crawl, but John in particular seemed to cause him a whole lot of grief. "Arthur," the younger man's voice wavered and a protective wave washed over him, a white-hot anger that threatened to burst. "I can't go back there, Arthur. I- Shit... I'd die before I'd go back there." There was a raw honesty to the words that Arthur never wanted to hear in that context, and it broke his heart. 

"You ain't going back. I'll make damn sure of it." He put a hand on John's shoulder, hoping it wouldn't do more harm than good. When he didn't pull away, he gave a light squeeze. "I been talking to some of the gang and it sounds like this is all going to come to a peak real soon here. If we have to cut and run, we cut and run." 

John looked to all the world like he was years beyond his age, worn down by distrust and betrayal, but there was a cold determination in the hard set of his jaw. "I figure we get what we can from this train job, can't get nowhere without money, and go from there."

Arthur nodded, losing his focus trying to figure out when exactly everything had started going to shit. A long time ago, maybe longer than he knew. The first real glaring moment was in Blackwater when that ferry job went sideways and he saw Dutch murder a woman in cold blood. He felt a pang of guilt at the realization that her name had slipped his mind. It seemed more and more like they'd lost what was left of their code, leaving them with nothing but running and chasing some fortune that probably didn't exist. He'd tried to deny it as long as he could, to himself as well as the others. All of the talks with John came back to him, about loyalty and trust and doubt. Even before this latest stunt, the boy had tried all too many times to make his point about things changing, only to get dismissed by everyone. Now this. He had a feeling that all that questioning of his had made its way to Dutch and likely just made him the easiest candidate for 'losing the O'Driscolls'.

"You hearin' me, old man?" John's voice jerked him out of his head. He shrugged, hoping it was an acceptable answer even though he obviously hadn't been listening. The younger man chuckled and shook his head. "Forget it, not important. You have any idea how this hit's supposed to work?"

It had been a minute since they'd tried to hit a train and the last one had not gone well, to say the least. He grimaced slightly at the memory of the bullet that had grazed shoulder, only missing home because John had shoved him at the last second. "Not really, just hoping Dutch is right about the security and the take on it. The last thing we need is someone getting shot on a fool's errand."

"I wouldn't count on the lead being all he's building it up to, they usually ain't. Do us both a favor though, and don't space out in the middle of a gunfight." Arthur glared at the snide comment, but there was no venom to the words. John almost looked relaxed, leaned back and staring up a bird on a branch nearly. The twitchy fidgeting with his hat was the only giveaway of his nerves. Even with the scarring on his face and his incessant self-deprecation, John had always been striking in a strange kind of way. Every so often, Arthur would catch the man in a moment like this and find himself yearning for more than he could have. Spacing out again, he thought, but didn't care all that much. He could allow himself to look from time to time. After all, with the sun hitting his face just so and his hair that rat's nest of a mess, how could he not? He absently wished he could draw him like this. John met his gaze for just a moment and he bit his tongue to keep from spitting out anything he couldn't take back. A forest fire had burned in those eyes for as long as he'd known him, wild and untamed despite the strict code by which he lived. There was something almost animal buried inside the man. Something raw and untapped. It was too easy for him to think of John as that scrappy kid, dragged into his life by circumstance, without an ounce of sense in his head. He didn't know that he'd ever stop teasing him for the idiot he used to be, but against all odds, he'd grown into a man too smart, too perceptive, for his own good. Okay, dumbass, he chided himself and tried to stop that chain of thought. The sun was close to setting.

"We should head back," he said, gentler than he meant to. John gave him a look but didn't say anything about it.

"Maybe Charles can just debrief us," he grumbled, dragging his feet. "I'm not sure I'm up to another of these drawn out lectures." Arthur certainly shared the sentiment.

They walked back to find that Charles could not, in fact, debrief them, since Dutch was just getting started going over the plan. John sighed heavily, shaking his head.

"There you boys are! We're just going over the plan here if you'd care to join." Dutch was smiling but it didn't quite reach his eyes. They joined the circle formed by the rest of the men recruited for the hit. "As I was saying, we'll have to stop the train before it gets from point A to point B. Arthur, I need you to get on and stop it. John, Bill, and Micah, get what you can off the passengers. Charles and I are going to take the cargo. It shouldn't be guarded so we should be in and out without any problems. Clear?" They all grunted something affirmative and Dutch raised his arms dramatically. "Then off we go!"

While they mounted up, he noticed the looks Micah was shooting at John. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

°°°

It had not gone according to plan. Arthur had the train stopped and John was halfway through his last car with a bag of cash and jewelry when he heard the law outside. One man shot out of his seat and tried to rush him for the bag. Micah shot the poor fool in the head, blowing blood all over John's face and chest. He cursed loudly and took a moment to appreciate the bandana pulled over half of his face. "None of you move and no one else gets hurt!" he shouted, wiping what was exposed of his face partly clean with a gloved hand.

Micah scowled at him, clearly hoping these people wouldn't listen to him, but he didn't have time to pay him any mind. He tossed the bag to Bill, "Get it out of here and make sure you ain't followed!" Bill just nodded and went back the way they came to get his horse. At least he could keep his mouth shut on the job, John thought with relief. He ran out the opposite side of the car and ducked behind cover. Dutch and Charles were at the opposite end of the flatcar.

"You boys don't have to do this!" Dutch called out in typical Dutch fashion, "We aren't looking for anyone to get hurt here. Let us go and we'll make ourselves scarce." The lawman paused and opened his mouth to respond, but a bullet hit him between the eyes before he got the chance. He looked at Dutch and the smoking gun in his hand incredulously for a beat, then they were under heavy fire. 

There were a lot of officers but thankfully, they weren't the best shots. John put three out them down and saw of Arthur approaching from the front of the train on his horse, slowing down to put a few of his own shots in. Something lurched in his chest and he yelled for him to go on, meeting his eyes for just a second. He couldn't watch Arthur get hurt on another one of these idiotic jobs. Against his every expectation, the man listened and spurred his horse. There weren't many of the men left and they made short work of clearing them out. The air went quiet and they stood slowly, scanning the area. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Charles whip around and fire. In the same instant, white-hot pain tore through his hip. God dammit.

An inexplicable calm came over him and he looked down, pressing a hand to the source of what felt like a fire spreading through his side. It came away bloody, but at least the bullet wasn't lodged inside of him somewhere. That was a lot of blood though. Charles came out of nowhere, pressing cloth into both sides of his body and wrapping fabric tightly around him. The pressure was nauseating, and being thrown over the man's shoulder from where he'd fallen to his knees at some point was worse. He was saying something, but John was focused on what little assessment he could do on his own. As long as he didn't bleed out, this wouldn't kill him. That was what mattered.

The next thing he knew he was on the back of Charles' horse, holding the man for dear life while they rode hard back to the camp. It was a hazy ride, but he didn't pass out. When his head cleared again, Grimshaw was fussing over him, pouring alcohol over the wound and wrapping it properly. "We gotta stop running into each other like this, Susan." he croaked, getting a smile from the woman. It was a common misconception that she was made of stone, he'd known that for years. He'd been one of few to try to get past that cold exterior and he was always glad he had, to date he was one of very few she would allow to call her by her first name.

"You've dealt with far worse than this and come out fine no less." She shook her head and handed him a bottle of whiskey. "You're missing a celebration out there," she said in response to his look of confusion. "I hear you boys came out real well tonight, aside from you being in here again. Plus it'll help with the pain."

"It ain't all that bad," he chuckled, ignoring the shock that went through his side and opening the bottle. "I reckon my pain tolerance has gotten real high after all these years."

She laughed and took a swig from the bottle. "I remember the first time little Johnny Marston came in here with a bullet hole. My lord, you were young. Young and stupid."

"I was 16, don't think I've gone four years without one since." He remember the way he'd screamed with a grimace, he was just a kid. Too eager to get out on the big jobs and it landed him in bed with a hole in his shoulder.

"Now I'm going to recommend that you stay here at least until morning," she looked at him sternly, "But I know you well enough to know you'll do as you please so take these to clean and re-wrap it. And for the love of God, boy, don't go pushing yourself too hard."

She tucked the supplies into his bag and left after that, presumably to join the others outside. He could hear a few of them singing, painfully off key, while Javier played that beat up old guitar. It was stupid to try to walk, but he figured he was just dumb enough to get away with it without too many questions. He was limping pretty bad, but all things considered, it could've been worse. Whiskey in hand, he hobbled out of the house and spotted Arthur sitting at the edge of the stream, a ways from all the activity. That was the look of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders if he ever saw it. It took some effort, but he made his way over and set himself down carefully.

Arthur's eyes were like saucers and John couldn't help but laugh. "Hey there, how was the haul?"

"What? Uh." he replied, having always had a way with words. "We got about 400 bucks each plus the jewelry, some real rich folks on that train. Should you be up?"

"Probably not but here I am," he quipped with a smile. Arthur's concern had a way of making his go all warm inside, he made him feel safe somehow. He took a large swig of his drink and passed it to the man. The whiskey was also making him all warm inside, he thought, but that was less poetic.

They talked a long time about nothing in particular, nursing the bottle until it ran out and Arthur went to grab another. John's world was tilted a little sideways but he was too competitive to be out-drunk (Out-drank? Why did words need to be so difficult?) by his friend, even though it always got him in trouble. Arthur was telling some story from when they were kids that was drenched in nostalgia, involving John being a general pain in his ass. There was affection in his voice, though. That seemed to be the case more often than not recently. He'd noticed the protectiveness building for some time, but it had spiked when he saved his hide this last time. John leaned on his elbow, not sure when they'd laid down in the grass, watching the older man talk but not really listening. Somehow it had turned into a pastime of his to just watch him, even though he knew he shouldn't do it too often. He could indulge himself sometimes, though. After all, with the moon's reflection glittering in his eyes and the carefree smile on his face, limbs thrown out in abandon, how could he not? 

Arthur rolled onto his side and propped his head on his head, mirroring his position. "Whatcha thinkin' there, Johnny?" he asked, the words slurring together and his voice just notch too loud, the way it always got when he was drunk. Then he reached out with a clumsy hand, running his fingers through his hair, and John was pretty sure his heart stopped. "You know, this is real messy. Reckon it'd be pretty if you washed it every once in a while."

John didn't know what to say, laid out with Arthur's fingers in his hair, the side of his hand brushing his face. He was probably too drunk to respond coherently anyway. So he leaned in and kissed him instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot and pining and ouch and fluff!  
> stroke my ego pls


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay y'all this is unapologetic smut and fluff yw

John's mind was going a million miles an hour, with Arthur's hand behind his neck, holding him in place, and their mouths smashed together. It had taken him several moments to realize that he wasn't going to be punched in the jaw or thrown into the nearby river. Those things weren't happening because by some miracle, Arthur was kissing him back. It was lips and teeth and tongue, messy and bruising from a mountain of unspoken feelings. It was everything he'd ever wanted.

He let the older man roll him onto his back without breaking contact, biting his lip and tangling a hand in his hair. Desire burned inside of him and radiated off his skin. Arthur was everywhere; John reached up and carded his fingers through golden hair, resting one hand on the side of his face and the other on the broad expanse of his chest. He tasted like whiskey and something else he couldn't place. Arthur pulled back just enough to rumble against his mouth, "You sure this is what you want?"

John couldn't help but laugh lightly, if he only knew how long he'd been sure of that. He pulled Arthur back down to him and kissed him again, slower this time, trying to put all the years of heartache and longing into the action. Arthur's tongue was in his mouth and he felt short stubble scratching against his own. John briefly wondered if this was heaven. Through a slight haze of alcohol, it hardly felt real, but far be it for him to turn his nose up at a good thing. An incredible thing.

He hadn't noticed Arthur working through the buttons of his shirt until he was halfway through. The chill of the air on his chest was an unwelcome, but much needed, reminder that they were still outside, in the open, with the gang only a couple dozen feet away. He gently pushed Arthur up off of him, getting a low whine from the man that went straight to his crotch. "Arthur. Tent?" was all he found the breath to say.

Arthur looked confused for a beat, then his eyes cleared and he nodded slowly. He stood shakily and helped John do the same, all but pulling him by the wrist around the edge of the camp, away from prying eyes. They stepped inside and he stood in the corner, ignoring his protesting hip as best he could. Damn thing would probably be a bit of a roadblock. Arthur tied the tent securely shut and started to approach him, but John stepped forward and pushed him gently onto the cot. He put his knees on either side of his hips and settled on his lap, kissing him with intent. Distantly, he was aware of his shirt coming lose and shrugged it off his shoulders before pushing Arthur down on his back. His lips were red and his face was flushed, but the look he gave John was focused. He couldn't unravel the raw emotion he saw there, so John tilted his head and starting working his way down Arthur's neck, fumbling with his shirt buttons as best he could. That turned out to take too much effort. A low growl of frustration bubbled up from his chest and he just pulled the blue fabric apart, sending buttons flying. Arthur grumbled something about it being his favorite shirt so rather than tell him to shut up and that someone would fix it in the morning, he pressed their mouths together again. It was significantly more effective.

He lapped into Arthur's mouth and let his hands explore his chest in a way he'd always wanted to. The man was all firm, dense muscle and surprisingly soft skin. He knew the map of scars that littered his body like that back of his hand and the story behind every one of them, from gunshots to falls off his horse to remnants of their own fights that got just a little too rough. Arthur's hands were on his shoulders, not pushing him down but silently asking. He was more than happy to oblige, biting his lip a last time and scooting backwards to leave a trail of fresh marks down his chest and stomach. A stream of alternating praise and curses spilled him his long longer occupied lips and John felt vaguely proud of himself, having this effect on the man everyone thought was made of stone. Emboldened, his rolled a nipple between his teeth, feeling it harden, and started working Arthur's jeans open and down.

"John," his voice was hoarse, just above a whisper. "Nothin' you ain't ready for, okay?" The concern and assurance warmed John's heart, erasing any shadow of a doubt in his mind.

"'Course," he whispered, "You too." Arthur nodded his consent, squeezing his shoulders. John made quick work of getting both of their pants down, not having quite enough patience to wrench either pair of boots off. All barriers removed, he finally let himself really look, done with the stolen glances and hidden stares. Arthur's hair was a pushed messily out of his face, his pupils were blown, and a pink flush spread from his face down his chest. He took in the defined muscles of his chest and enviable abs, then a flash of hair and... "Jesus." He'd seen him naked before, but obviously never in this context, and Arthur was very well endowed.

That got a laugh from the man, likely inflating his ego a bit much for John's liking. The laughter died in Arthur's throat and turned into a low moan when John wrapped his fingers around the base of his dick. It was suffice to say that he knew what he was doing. Arthur could probably tell, but that didn't really matter anymore. He swirled pre-cum with his thumb and watched the shudder that rocked through Arthur's entire frame. Stroking long and slow, he leaned up and kissed him then moved down to settle between his thighs. His legs hung off the end of the bed, but he didn't have it in him to care. He licked his lips and wrapped them around the considerable girth, just the head first, and ever so slowly worked his way down. Arthur was moaning like he never could've imagined, try as he had. It was a mess of "yes, yes, yes, yes" and "so good, John, fuck" and "stop teasin', you asshole" with every bob of his head. Part of him worried that they'd be heard, but he could still hear the loud laughter and poor singing across them camp, more than loud enough to drown them out. Evidently the thought had sidetracked him, because Arthur was digging a hand back into his hair. The hand pushed his head down hard and John just barely thought to relax his throat before his nose hit dark blonde curls. It had been a long time since he'd let himself do this to anyone and he groaned softly, getting more swearing above him. From there, he let Arthur set the pace. The strangled, desperate noises he let out more than made up for the ache in his jaw.

"John, John, fuck! Johnnnnn I'm-," he keened in a pitch that John had never heard come out of the man's mouth before. Getting the message, he sped up until Arthur's legs spasmed then sunk all the way back down. With what could only be described as a yelp, Arthur finished down his throat, gasping as he milked him through it. John let him go with a popping sound and collapsed onto his chest, still as hard as he'd ever been in his life but content enough, unwilling to push his luck.

Like he'd read his mind, Arthur reached between them and kneaded his own length with his palm. John swore more loudly than he'd meant to and scrambled to get his knees under him, giving more room for movement. His hair was sticking to his face with sweat and his limbs were shaking violently. It was fast and hard and perfect. He tucked his face into Arthur's shoulder and nearly bit through his lip fighting down the loudest of his own moaning. Arthur had him worked to completion embarrassingly quickly, getting a mess of come on his chest for his efforts. Not wanting to lay back down until they'd wiped off, John dropped from his hands to his elbows and rested his forehead on Arthur's. He felt the man's breath on his face, smelled the lingering whiskey, and opened his eyes. The look he got made him want to melt, Arthur's face had gone soft and his eyes must have held all the affection in the world. "Wow," he mumbled dumbly.

Arthur chuckled and stroked his cheek. "Wow, indeed. We should probably clean up a bit, yeah?" He looked pointedly down at himself and back up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up, you got a rag or something?" He spotted a bucket of water in the corner and wrestled himself to his feet.

"With my shaving stuff," Arthur supplied. He waddled a few steps with his pants around his ankles, wishing he'd just taken his shoes off beforehand, and wet the rag. It seemed only fair that he wiped Arthur down first, so he did. "Ain't you chivalrous, Johnny?" the older man teased. John glared and cleaned himself up, tossing the rag into the bucket and pulling his pants up so he could at least coordinate himself better.

"You know me," he grumbled when he rolled back into the bed. "Ever the gentleman." Arthur said something back, but John was fighting a losing battle against sleep. He curled into his side, minding that his bad hip wasn't the one he laid on, and dropped his head to Arthur's chest. The world swam for a few minutes, during which Arthur stretched his arm out and around him, pulling him closer. They both slept better than they had in a long time.

°°°

Arthur woke up with a vice around his head and a half naked John Marston curled around him. The night came rushing back to him all at once and did nothing to ease his headache. It hadn't been a dream. John hadn't bolted in the middle of the night. Where that left them, he hadn't the slightest idea. He didn't want to be presumptuous, but hoped against hope that this wasn't a one-time thing. It didn't feel like a one-time thing. John grumbled in his sleep, shifting his head off of Arthur's chest and laying on his back. The man always had restless legs, Arthur thought with a smile. Sleep eased the lines of stress from his face, leaving only the angry scars marring his complexion. They were still pink from being reopened and healing all over again. Scanning rest of John's body, he found that there were more of the fresh scars there then he'd noticed before. He ghosted a finger along a particularly prominent one, crossing the left side of his chest at an angle, stretching from his shoulder to the top of his ribcage. It was understandable that he could rarely be found without a shirt anymore, Arthur knew that the fool thought scars were signs of weakness. There were a lot of them though, far too many for anyone to have, much less anyone who hadn't even hit 30. He silently vowed to put an end to the relentless self-consciousness that John couldn't seem to shake.

John scratched at the scars on his face and rolled over again, showing signs of waking. Arthur held his breath when he opened his eyes, watching confusion flicker across his face before it dissolved into something warmer. "Mornin', sunshine," his voice was barely more than a whisper but it dripped with affection.

He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face. "Mornin'. How's your head? And hip?" The smile melted into concern when he suddenly remembered the gunshot wound, "Should probably change the wrapping on that, right?"

John cocked an eyebrow at him, a familiar mischievous glint in his eye. "Be my guest, but I reckon it's about time I scrubbed some soap over myself. It's been just a hair too long." With that, he swung his legs off the bed and grabbed his shirt off the ground, not bothering to button it back up. The bed was suddenly a lot colder. John stood and started limping toward the tent flaps. "You comin'?" came the question over his shoulder.

Arthur had no idea where this confidence had come from, but it was more than welcome. "Sure," he grunted and hauled himself to his feet, not bothering with a shirt since his had been torn apart. 

They rode out to a secluded river nearby instead of the town. That was Arthur's preference, but he knew damn well that it wasn't John's and braced himself early on for the impending complaints. The water was like ice on bare skin, shocking any remaining sleep out of his system.

"Son of a bitch!" John yelped when he was waist deep, getting a laugh out of Arthur. He glared, then bitched and moaned the whole time he worked himself over with the soap. Accepting the risk to his person, Arthur approached him from behind and caught him off guard, dunking his head under the surface. It was well worth the elbow to his ribs to see him jerk upright, looking remarkably like a wet cat. "God dammit, Morgan! Jesus fuckin' Christ," his teeth chattered slightly through the words.

"I told you, Marston, you oughta wash that rat's nest on your head," he chuckled; if looks could kill, he'd be dead in that river several times over. John groaned in protest, but lathered up the bar in his hands. Arthur snatched it from him, equating the man's slowed reflexes to the cold that had drained the color from him. "Let me."

He didn't expect him to listen, but he did so without complaining, so he rubbed the soap between his hands until they were covered in suds. John looked wary, which was fair, but waded closer when he beckoned. Arthur scrubbed his hands into his hair, trying to be gentle as he worked through the many, many knots and tangles. He was very aware of John's eyes trained on him, but ignored them until he finished. Testing his luck, he moved to dunk his head again, but he scrambled out of the way before he could. "Nice try, old man," he quipped, bending just enough at the knees to submerge his head and washed the soap out. He made quick work of it and his teeth were chattering full force when he straightened again.

"Gotcha once and I'll get you again, kid." He stepped up put his hands on either side of John's face, kissing him gently. His lips sure were freezing, but for all his complaining, he kissed him back. Again. Briefly.

"Okay I have to get dry or I'll freeze to death, knowing my luck," he grunted, trudging out of the water. Arthur followed, watching him shake out his hair and grab a towel. He dried himself next, while John wrapped his hip, impressed with his stoicism as he did it. "It really ain't all that bad," he said, more evenly now, apparently having caught him staring.

"It's a hole through your body, dumbass. I know you're fine, been fine with worse." He didn't need to provide any examples, there was over a decade of them.

"Arthur," there was something odd in John's voice, pulling his attention from wrestling pants over his still damp legs. "We ain't... I, er, well, I don't want to pretend all this didn't happen and I don't know where that puts us but I don't really care. I've wanted this a long time and-." The idiot was rambling about nonsense so Arthur buttoned his pants and kissed him again. He swore he'd do so at every chance, especially given how well it shut him up.

"Shut up, Marston. Probably shouldn't go telling everyone at the camp, but I ain't goin' nowhere." John blushed and smiled sheepishly.

The ride back was quiet, but the silence was comfortable. By the time they'd arrived, a calm had settled in Arthur's chest that he couldn't identify. He hitched his horse and glanced at John, feeding an apple to his own horse with a smile on his face. His hair fell in dark waves around his shoulders, blown dry by the wind. It really was pretty, he thought with a smile of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if chapters are coming out too short someone please tell me lol I hit around 2k on them usually but update quickly and (pretty) consistently if that's a fair trade off


	8. Chapter 8

John found himself in a daze when Charles dragged him out of camp for a hunt. His head didn't seem to want to clear itself, but in all fairness it had a lot to process. Things with Arthur were indescribable; it felt so much like a dream that he often worried that he'd wake up and it would be like nothing happened. They kept it as subtle as possible around the others so he was pretty sure no one had caught on. Well. Charles knew somehow, but he swore not to say anything. John thought maybe Arthur had told him, or maybe he was just that much more observant than he'd realized. 

"Get out of your head and quit walking so loud, John. You're scaring everything off," Charles scolded with just a hint of frustration leaking into his voice. 

"My fault," he said sheepishly, slowing his pace and watching the ground more carefully. Pearson had gotten louder about his complaining than he figured Charles wanted to deal with, prompting this hunting trip. Once he focused up, they brought down two pronghorns, two rabbits, and two turkeys, which was as good a haul as they could hope for. It wasn't that he'd been a bad hunter before, but he was certainly better at it after all the weeks of practice. Arthur had been right about Charles being a good teacher.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, when you keep it clear," Charles smiled with the larger of the deer slung over his shoulder, carrying it like it was nothing. He'd been jealous of the man's impressive build since they first met, but it wasn't a reasonable jealousy. Sure, he couldn't throw animals, or people for that matter, around so easily, but he got by fine. As much as the group seemed to think otherwise, he had enough of a brain to be the best shot among them. 

"That ain't so easy out here like this," he grunted as he loaded the other deer onto his horse. "Don't seem to be much peace these day so I'll take what I can get."

"Things any better with Dutch and Micah? I know you've been out a lot since you healed up." Charles had finished loading up and watched him carefully.

John shrugged halfheartedly, "Hard to say. Micah's always hovering, hasn't given me space to breathe in ages and don't say nothin' except to be an ass. Dutch still acts like nothing ever happened. Sometimes I worry he'll send me on one of these trips and it'll be another... And I won't be coming back. Seems we've got someone new chasing us around every other day. Someone that needs 'losin''." Anxiety rippled through him at the thought. Dutch did have him out a lot as soon as he was well enough to go, a couple times on his own. He couldn't kick the paranoia at the back of his mind.

"I thought I'd check in on that before I told y'all," Charles paused, but he couldn't read the man to save his life. "I found a site a way out when I was fishing with Hosea. Somewhere a few of us could lay low for a while, if it comes to that." They'd talked about leaving, but it still surprised John that he'd made the effort to scope a place out.

"That's... Thanks, Charles," he hated the way his voice shook. "I don't want to just walk out just yet, but that's the next step. We're all trying to get some money pulled together first, it's good to have a place to go though." He wasn't really sure what to say that would get across how much the gesture meant to him. Charles seemed to understand anyway, nodding and clapping him on the back. They mounted up and rode back to camp in a peaceful silence, but the nervous pang in John's stomach didn't fade.

°°°

That sense of something impending turned out to be well warranted. John had barely finished dropping off the haul of meat with Pearson when Dutch strolled up. "Very good, boys! Tonight we feast like kings!" Ever the showman, John thought, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "John, when you finish up here, I need you and Micah to go into town. He may have a lead on an old plantation house with a lot of promise." He found himself looking for any reason to say no and drew a blank. This was the first time he and Micah would have to spend more than a few minutes together and that in itself didn't bode well.

Still, he didn't have a good enough excuse to back out. "Sure, Dutch," he grumbled, knowing that Micah would be just as unhappy about it. At least there was one thing they could agree on.

"Perk up, son! You two can't stay at each other's necks forever. Whatever the problem is, I expect it to be resolved." His voice left no room for protest.

"And resolved it shall be!" Micah leered, walking up from behind Dutch. The man had a tendency to eavesdrop. "Close quarters solves most things eh, Marston?" He bit back a smartass comment and turned to walk away, far from enthused. "Pack up and we'll get going!" Micah called after him. Fantastic.

Arthur was whittling a chunk of wood in the tent when he pulled the flaps back. That sight alone was enough to calm the fire that had been building up in his chest. He dropped down next to him on the cot, heaving a sigh as anger turned to worry. "What's got you all in a mood then?" Arthur asked, fixing him with a look. More amusement at his expense than anything, John thought and shook his head.

"Dutch wants me to go into town with Micah, follow up on a lead." The speed at which Arthur's face fell would've been funny in any other circumstance. "Said somethin' about resolving our issues."

"That is... A godawful idea. Micah ain't one to resolve nothin', reckon all he knows how to do is make it worse. Who else is going?" It was more a plea than a question.

John leaned into Arthur, letting his head fall to his shoulder. It made him feel soft, but he needed the comfort of the hand that drifted to his hair and the warmth that radiated from the man. "Just us, I think. I'm supposed to pack up and be ready to leave soon here. It's just into town for the evening, should be fine I guess." He knew he should be getting ready but he couldn't shake the bundle of nerves in his stomach. Arthur kissed his forehead, gently detangling his hair out of habit. He seemed to be a bit fixated on his hair, John thought with a smile, but it gave him an excuse not to cut it. The repetition was calming, and before long his hands stopped shaking. "Charles found somewhere we can go," he said before he could convince himself not to.

Arthur paused for what felt like an eternity. "Good," he finally said. "It might be getting close to time here soon. Hosea and Lenny both mentioned saving up to get out, surprised me but they're bright enough to see that this ain't goin' nowhere."

"See if you can find anyone else," John mumbled, forcing himself to his feet. "Whoever wants to leave should get the chance." He started packing up his bag, grabbing a spare set of clothes and some ammunition, just in case. Seeing the worry on Arthur's face when he finished, he squatted down in front of him and took his hands. "We'll be okay, don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

Arthur rolled his eyes and cracked a smile. "Shut up, Marston. Just be careful." He kissed him goodbye in a promise that he would.

°°°

The ride out with Micah was mostly, thankfully, quiet. It was a bit of a haul into town, but it gave John a chance to clear his head and brace for whatever might happen next. They met their man in a run-down old saloon, where he described gold and cash that were probably too good to be true. He figured they'd be lucky to find a fraction of what was being promised.

"James, my boy, don't tell me you're one of those who don't drink to a good find!" the man exclaimed, startling John and getting a laugh from Micah. These damn aliases always messed with his head.

"Weren't plannin' on it tonight," he tried to explain, but found again that he didn't have a solid excuse to decline. The man just shook his head and ordered them a round. He wished he could remember the fool's name.

Micah was well ahead of him, red in the face from the liquor. "Chrissakes, cowpoke, live a little!" John scowled at him but downed the shot he'd been given. "There we go! Now, Abe, tell me more about this gold." He figured that was as good a cue as any to tune out again. It was well beyond him how Micah ever got any information out of people; he'd seen Hosea and Trelawny twist words like it was an art, but Micah? He was all blunt questions and abrasive personality. Still, he got them leads somehow and every once in a while they had a real good payout. A scan of the bar didn't reveal anyone watching them, so he relaxed just a bit.

Drinks kept coming and he kept getting egged into taking them until the room tilted off its axis. He hoped his horse knew the way to camp by then because he wasn't in the best state to be riding. Abe went on his way after a few hours without paying the tab. John silently cursed his company and pulled out just enough cash to cover it since Micah had disappeared somewhere. He stumbled out the back door and waited for the cool air to work its magic. His stomach protested any movement and he scolded himself for not eating anything before he left. He really hadn't planned on drinking. 

Micah walked over from down the alley, still bright red and smirking. "Never took you for a lightweight, Marston," he chided, obviously trying to provoke him. 

"Lightweight?" John scoffed, getting another lurch of his insides. "Reckon we drank enough for the whole damn town."

"What ever happened to the glow of youth?" Micah stepped further into his space. John glared but the man didn't back off, setting off alarm bells in the back of his head. "I don't rightly know what Morgan sees in you that sends him all primal. Is he just restless? Or are you just easy?"

John choked and tried to back up, hitting the wall behind him. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, asshole. I never did anything to you! The hell is your problem with me?" He clenched his fists in an effort to stop their renewed shaking.

"I'm just tryin' to understand here, kid. Went poking around and found O'Driscoll's journal in Morgan's tent, real interesting stuff." John felt his blood run cold. "Now I'm lookin' to understand what it is about you, John Marston, that gets these men so... Excited." 

He could smell Micah's breath and feel the palpable threat hanging in the air. After a beat to reorient himself, he jerked forward and kneed the man in the crotch with all the strength he could muster. Time seemed to be moving in slow-motion as he watched Micah double over and turned to run. It felt like running through molasses, his head was spinning and he swore loudly when he tripped over something on the ground. Before he could scramble back to his feet, Micah was there, flipping him onto his back and pinning his wrists beside his head. He struggled hard, but his weight disadvantage coupled with the liquor in his system to work against him. "God dammit, Micah," he panted, rage overriding his panic. "I swear on my ma's grave, I will fucking kill you."

Micah just laughed and John saw red. "Maybe easy ain't the right word! Spitfire, more like. That's a lofty threat from the likes of you."

"That ain't a threat," John growled, "That's a promise if you don't let up and leave me the hell alone." 

The older man made a face like he was considering that, then swung forward and headbutted him in the nose, sending a wave of blood down his face. John absently wondered how many times he could have his nose broken in one lifetime. "Kill me, will you? That don't give me much incentive to let you walk out of this now, does it Johnny? Seeing as you're not in much of a position to act on that unless I do." He leaned forward again until they were nearly nose to nose. "I done told you I was being forgiving before, seems you didn't appreciate that for what it was." 

John held his breath and buried his head as far into the dirt as he could when the man kept leaning in. He screwed his eyes shut and felt Micah bite his lip, tasting cheap vodka and blood. In a last ditch effort, he tried to return that headbutt, but the bastard jerked back and laughed before he hit home. He felt a familiar resolution settle in his chest, all too used to these no-exit situations. It was more of a bite than anything when Micah smashed his mouth to his own and John tried to twist out of it, but couldn't find enough give to get his wrists free. Micah seemed to enjoy the resistance, much to his dismay. He picked up on just a second of slack in the man's grip and jerked one hand free, pushing him away as hard as he could. That got him a second of success before Micah's newly free hand closed around his neck. John could almost laugh at the familiarity of it, he couldn't count on both hands the number of times Micah had borderline strangled him. The weight and pressure were familiar, but the look in the other man's eyes wasn't. It was the look that sent a spike of panic through him, that had him pulling and scratching at anything he could reach. His vision slowly started to blur and tunnel. Another hand joined the first and their grip tightened further.

"Can't very well let you sneak up on me in my sleep or nothin', John." Micah's voice sounded far away. "I got a camp to sabotage here and the last thing I need is some idiot killing me before I finish." Darkness started eating away at the rest of his sight and a fire burned in his lungs. It was a sensation that was no less terrifying than it had been the last dozen times. He fought against unconsciousness, trying to cement those words in his memory, but his body gave in and sent him falling under.

°°°

"I got a camp to sabotage here and the last thing I need is some idiot killing me before I finish." Arthur recognized Micah's voice the moment he stepped out of the saloon. He turned the corner and the already hot anger bubbling inside him boiled over. It didn't take much logic to figure that it was Micah on the ground, choking the life out of the man underneath him. The son of a bitch had always been sloppy. A few quiet steps forward and a look around Micah's frame revealed his victim, and all but confirmed his fate. Arthur just caught John's eyes fluttering closed and the fight draining out of him. A spike of white-hot rage shot through his body and he drew his pistol, catching Micah's attention.

The man whipped around at the sound, scrambling to his feet. Something flickered across his face when he saw that it was him and he slowly raised his hands. "Now, Morgan, I need you to listen to me before you-." A bullet hit him square in the middle of his forehead before he spat out some bullshit excuse. Arthur decided he'd had enough, enough of Micah and Dutch, enough of the running and hiding and aimless searching. This was the last straw. When he could think clearly again, he remembered John.

He dropped to his knees beside the younger man, feeling for any whisper of a pulse, watching for any sign that he was still breathing. "Come on, Marston, not like this. Not right now," he begged around the growing lump in his throat. Just when he was about to give up, he found a pulse and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It was barely there, but it was steady. He gathered John in his arms and whistled for his horse, they needed to make themselves scarce before the law showed up looking after that gunshot. 

Arthur pushed his poor horse hard, apologizing when she complained. They cut the travel time to the camp significantly and he promised her he'd get her some treats as soon as he could. Charles was on guard and wasted no time going after Grimshaw while he unloaded John from the horse and carried him inside. This all felt too familiar for his taste. Grimshaw said the same when she came rushing in with Charles at her heels.

"Don't tell Dutch about this just yet," he asked of them both. "It, err," Charles caught his look at Grimshaw and nodded the answer to his unspoken question. She was on their side. How ridiculous that it had come down to sides when this was supposed to be a family. "It was Micah, I found them behind the bar in town."

Grimshaw didn't look particularly surprised and just went on fussing about 'you reckless boys' and 'can't leave you alone for five minutes'. Once she settled down, she sighed heavily. "He'll be fine, just needs to rest until some of this bruising heals up. I don't think there's any obstruction or real damage. He's fine here for now, but you both know he ain't safe around here anymore. Goddamn Micah Bell and his lunatic temper."

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, half expecting to be scolded. "Micah won't be a problem no more," he put it simply. Charles look surprised, but understanding as always. Grimshaw just shook her head.

"It's time to go, Arthur. Past time. If you're coming, Miss Grimshaw, we need to know as soon as John's well enough to move." She nodded and fixed them both with a look that Arthur couldn't identify.

"You boys are like my sons, 'specially John here, and I've had enough of you all being thrown into harm's way like a bunch of cattle to the slaughter. Course I'm coming. He'll be fine in a day or two," she assured them in a rare display of affection, even having compared them to cattle.

"I'll go tell the others and send someone ahead to make sure that site's still clear," Charles said and walked out the door.

°°°

John woke up confused, a trend that he wasn't particularly fond of. He was back at camp, in Grimshaw's room of course. The woman was flitting around, all but throwing things into bags. "Christ, Susan," he rasped and cleared his throat. "The hell are you doing?"

She paused and looked up at him with a half-smile on her face. "'Bout time you woke up, boy. We're leaving, us, Arthur, Charles, Hosea, and a few others. This place ain't safe and these people ain't family. Just your luck that the other shoe seems to have dropped right on your head. Go help Arthur pack when you've got your bearings." 

His head spun from that information dump, but he did as she said. He'd known this was coming for a while and figured they were as ready as they'd ever be. Arthur was packing the last of his things when he walked into the tent. "John," he all but choked and pulled him into a hug. The break in the man's voice made his chest hurt, it was a sound he wanted to prevent at all costs. "I thought I'd lost you. I thought that bastard took you from me."

"Hey, hey," John said softly, pulling away just enough to look up at his face. He wiped a tear from those stormy blue eyes, trying to fight down the guilt at having caused this. "I told you we'd be okay, didn't I? If I went and died every time Micah tried to strangle me, I'd be gone a hundred times over. We're okay and we're getting out of here." He put a hand on either side of his face and kissed him softly.

"We're okay," Arthur repeated quietly, like he was reassuring himself. "Everyone's almost done packing and Lenny's waiting for us there."

"Let's finish up then." They made quick work of tearing down the tents and loading up the horses, traveling as light as they could. Susan and the girls left first, slipping out with Hosea before Dutch got back from whatever errand he was running. 

They were saddling up and getting ready to leave when Dutch's voice rang out across the yard. "Marston, Morgan, Smith! What in the fresh hell do you think you're doing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay y'all, my sister's birthday was yesterday and the day before I was driving home from school


	9. Chapter 9

John felt the first crack in his resolve at Dutch's tone, the same tone he'd received as a kid when he'd done something irreparably stupid. It only lasted a moment though, an old reflex to back down and 'listen to reason' that was squandered by betrayal. He glanced at Arthur and saw that he'd all but frozen with one hand still on his horse's neck. They were past the point of turning back, and he tried to communicate that without speaking when he caught Arthur's eye. It may or may not have landed, but he started moving again with a stiffness that John could empathize with. He counted to ten in his head and turned to face the man who had once been his father. All he saw in Dutch's face was rage, potent enough to make those notoriously steady hands shake. He looked for any trace of regret underneath all that anger, but there was none to be found.

"This ain't home for me anymore, Dutch. That's been made painfully clear." He was distantly impressed with himself for being able to keep his voice steady. "I won't stay here just to get send out on fool's errands that I reckon I'm not supposed to come back from."

Dutch's jaw twitched around grinding teeth. "If that's what you want, John, then get yourself out of my goddamn hair. That is not the problem here. What gives you the right to take my son from me? My brothers?" Well that stung. Near 20 years and that's all he was, a problem and some disease that had infected more important people than himself.

"Your son?" Arthur growled, visibly seething. "This whole operation stopped being about family a long time ago. That aside, I'm still no more your goddamn son than Marston. Hell, he's probably closer to it than I ever was! Least I had some sense in my head by the time you got to me. You go and drag a child into this life, you don't get to change your mind when things get hard. You don't get to pick and choose who you sacrifice for some greater good! If that's what you do to your sons, I don't want no part of it."

A small crowd had started gathering around and John felt his face burn. This felt too personal to have the likes of Bill listening in. "I idolized you once, Dutch. Guess I never knew any better. Whatever happened, whatever changed, it ain't what we signed on for. If people want out, they got the right to leave."

"The right?" Dutch's voice dropped lower and he stepped closer. John had been watching for it and saw that his fingers were twitching near his gun, but it stayed holstered for the moment. "The right to leave, and then what? Tell the law where to find us? Rat out everyone with the decency to stay loyal? No one has that right, boy. Not when the only thing that's happened is a bout of bad luck and a few plans gone awry."

He couldn't hold back a harsh laugh at that. "Plans gone awry. A plan going awry is the only reason I'm still breathin', ain't it? A damn inconvenience I'm sure, for you and Colm both. Maybe the two of you got more in common than I thought. If I died when I was supposed to, this still would've happened, Dutch."

"The hell it would've," Dutch snarled, hand on his gun now. John tensed and hoped Arthur or Charles had noticed. "I. Had. A. Plan. And it would've gone seamlessly if you'd played your part, but that's always been too much to expect of you. I suppose I thought you could at least do this one thing right. Maybe this mess is indeed my fault, if only for having too much faith in John Marston once again. Lucky I believe that a wrong," he paused and took a calculated breath, "Can always be righted."

It happened in the span of a few seconds. He saw Dutch draw his gun and point it at his face, the shock of the sight all but paralyzed him. He felt Arthur's weight hit him from the side, sending them both to the ground. He heard the explosion of shouting from everyone around him. Then Arthur was shaking him alert and time caught back up with him. "We gotta go! Now!" Arthur raised his voice over the commotion, crouching behind a rock to avoid a shot to the head.

John knew that none of them would fire back on those they were leaving behind, but bullets whizzed through that air above them. Dutch stopped shooting and started talking, and they took that as their cue to mount and run. It was nothing short of a miracle that none of them were shot in the back. He couldn't remember the last time he rode so hard for so long and apologized repeatedly to his horse for it. They rode in the opposite direction of the new camp, not willing to risk exposing it so soon, and didn't stop until they reached an old abandoned shack in the woods.

"We probably lost them, but it's best we stay here overnight," Charles said when they pulled the horses to a stop. They hitched the animals a short distance away, not wanting to draw attention to their makeshift camp. Dinner was lukewarm beans straight from the can, not ideal but something they were all used to.

"Should I have expected it to go that way?" John found himself asking with a heavy weight on his chest. It wasn't that he'd expected it to go smoothly, but Dutch pointing a gun at his head and pulling the trigger? The bullet would've hit home between his eyes if Arthur hadn't shoved him aside.

"None of us knew Dutch was that unhinged," Arthur said softly, fidgeting with something he'd picked up off the ground. "I doubt even he knew that was the direction it was going until he already had the gun in his hand."

It was probably true, but who knew anymore with Dutch. At least he knew that he hadn't been blowing things out of proportion for the last couple of months, he'd been right about where he stood in that camp. Nothing but a pest that they couldn't seem to kill. "I'll take first watch," he grunted and stood before either man could protest. It would be getting dark soon and they needed to rest.

"Be careful, Marston," Arthur called after him, and he took a moment to thank whatever higher power that the man was on his side. He didn't rightly know where he would be if he was on his own, probably wouldn't have lasted this long.

The air was humid with impending rain, sitting heavy in his lungs. He didn't notice so much when things were actively blowing up in his face, but any moment of peace gave his battered body a chance to remind him of its sorry state. The bullet hole in his hip throbbed after a full day of scuffling and running and riding, causing a heavy limp that he tried his best to conceal. His shoulders were close to fully recovered, but the hanging in that basement had taken a lofty toll on them. He'd known it would. The worst of the cuts on his body and face were finally starting to scar over, and the only bruises that weren't long gone were the ones around his neck. He made a point of wearing a bandana or a wrap of some kind to cover the ugly ring of purple and black, more for his own peace of mind than anyone else's comfort. Any vulnerability still made him feel overexposed. He didn't tell Arthur, or anyone, that he saw Colm O'Driscoll or one of his men out the corner of his eye sometimes when he was alone, only to turn and find that his mind was playing tricks on him. He didn't talk about how he still had to run into the woods on his own to hide panics attacks that came out of nowhere. The nightmares were more manageable than those instances when he was awake, but they were harder to hide. It wasn't logical to think he'd be better by then, he knew that, but it was all as frustrating as it was terrifying. Time gave him the knowledge that the things he thought he saw sometimes simply wasn't there, and he was getting better at differentiating those things. It had all gotten less frequent at least, not multiple times a day every damn day anymore.

Arthur had been his rock through this trauma recovery, as much as he hated to call it that. Whatever they had going on between them, it gave him something to fight for as well as a sign that the world wasn't all just a crock of shit. They were near inseparable when given the opportunity to be together, and somehow Arthur hadn't gotten tired of him yet. Through injuries and breakdowns and now the implosion of their home, he stayed by his side. It was an understatement to say the he was surprised by the dedication. Of course they bickered like they always had, but they didn't tear into each other the way he'd grown so used to in relationships. He hadn't been involved like that with Abigail, but she sure as shit treated him the way those people had in the past. With Arthur, they weren't pitted against each other at any given moment. It sent him all mushy inside and weak in the knees, hard as he tried to put up a tough exterior. After all those years of pining, he actually got a good thing in his life and he was happier than he'd been in a long time. This business with Dutch made him feel like a dog, but deep down he knew that it was inevitable for their survival. They were safe, or at least well on the way to it.

The sun set reluctantly behind the mountains and darkness fell over the field. Over the chirping crickets, he could heard Charles snoring softly inside. Rain started coming down, first in a drizzle, then picking up into a storm. Thunder clapped overhead and a dog howled somewhere in the distance. John had always loved a good thunderstorm, and tucked against the wall of the hut, protected from most of the wet, he was content. He couldn't see much through the rain, which wasn't exactly ideal, but he kept a watchful eye out for anyone skirting the treeline.

After the physical and mental stress of the day, the rainfall must have lulled him asleep. A bright flash of lightning startled him awake. Visibility was all but gone and wind was blowing the rain under the coverage of the porch roof, leaving him more than a little damp. A shiver ran down his spine as he stood, moving to do a lap of the hut. No use staying put with his dry spot gone. He pulled his jacket tighter around his body, an unsettling feeling had risen into his chest and he tightened his grip on his gun. Inability to see more than a dozen feet in front of him was making him paranoid and he'd learned a long time ago to trust that gut feeling. He double checked that the back door was locked and made his way back around front. His hair was dripping and sticking to his face so he shoved it back, irritated that it wouldn't stay put. Karen had told him a thousand times that if he refused to cut it then he should just tie it back, but his pride had always won out in those arguments. If he had a dollar for every elastic band she'd shoved into his pockets, he'd be a wealthy man. Absently, he reached into his jacket pocket and knew he shouldn't have been surprised to find more than a few of the things. The need to see overruled his pride for the time being so he grumbled to himself and pulled the top half of his hair into a bun behind his head, the way he'd seen Javier do it so many times. He was just glad the woman wasn't there to gloat at what would've been a partial victory for her. A smile tugged at his lips, remembering her competitive nature nearly that rivaled his own.

He was torn from his musings by what sounded like a gunshot, far too close for comfort, then a woman screaming. His first reflex was to run toward the sounds, but he knew he had to be smart about his next move. Leaving Arthur and Charles wasn't an option, and if his hunch was right, they'd have company soon anyway. He kept a firm grip on his gun and tried to squint through the downpour. It was still too dark and too messy to see anything, but he could hear the faint thump of hooves hitting dirt. The hoofbeats drew closer then stopped. John checked his revolver, making sure it was fully loaded, and crouched behind a stack of crates on the porch. The last thing he needed was to get shot again when he wasn't even done healing from the last one. He couldn't see or hear a thing. A loud thunderclap boomed out overhead and a borderline blinding flash lit up the sky, crashing down on a nearby tree and setting it aflame. He knew that it couldn't have been planned, but it was an effective distraction. A gunshot rang out and a bullet whizzed by his ear. He startled and squatted lower behind his cover, realizing that this was going to be more than he could deal with on his own.

"Arth-," he started to shout to wake the other men when a calloused hand clapped over his mouth. Of fuckin' course. Dutch turned the corner with a smile on his face and his gun raised. John dropped his own gun and raised his hands, but still squirmed against the grip of the man behind him. His mind was racing for any possible end to this that didn't involve him dying.

"No need to wake the boys now, is there?" Dutch chided, keeping his voice low. "You know how I feel about loose ends, Marston. There's a hell of a lot for me to clean up here because of this stunt you're pulling. The question remaining is one of efficiency. How do I turn this in my favor? I reckon it won't take much more than a well-worded statement. Well folks, John has gone off he deep end at last. He shot and killed Mr. Bell in town, unprovoked, when they were supposed to be following up on a lead. You've all seen the look in his eye since he returned against all odds, from a nest of O'Driscolls no less!" He was weaving together a tale that John knew in his heart would be believed. "I have suspected a rat among us for some time, but never did I think to look on the man who was like a son to me. I understand that he has been planting a seed of doubt in your minds, about me, about what we're doing, but you may not know that this doubt was the end-goal of Colm O'Driscoll. We found John last night with a bullet in his head and a note in his hand. This note revealed the truth of what's been happening over the past months, a tale of betrayal, of a good man led astray. You all still have a home with me, somewhere safe. Better days are coming, folks. All I need is your faith."

John's head was spinning. This was all too well thought out to be an on-the-spot plan. He didn't have much time to think on that though, because Dutch was cocking his gun with a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face. For the second time that day, he was looking down the barrel of a loaded gun in the hands of the man he had once trusted above all others, but this time he was left to either get himself out of it or die before crossing the finish line. Adrenaline coursed through his system and he bit down on the hand over his mouth, hard. He drove an elbow into his gut of the man holding him and slammed his head back into his nose, breaking his grip. Dutch frantically fired twice and missed, the sound covered by the raging storm. John swiped his gun from the deck and sprinted around the corner of the hut. Taking a breath, he reached around and shot two of the three men Dutch had brought with him, one in the chest and the other in the head. The third man ran at him with a knife and got a shot to the knee, sending him to the ground. He stepped out of cover and put a bullet in the last henchman's head as he passed. Something cold gripped him to the core as he approached Dutch.

"You'll regret this, Marston," the older man seethed, practically spitting every word. John shook his head and punched him in the face as hard as he could. Dutch swore and stumbled backwards before taking a swing that he dodged easily. It felt like he was on autopilot, halfway disconnected from his own actions. He fought the man to the ground and dropped down over him with his knees on either side of his torso and one hand pinning his head down by his hair. Dutch spat in his face, startling him, but he didn't flinch away.

"You ain't no family of mine, Dutch van der Linde," John growled and pushed the barrel of his gun against the squirming bastard's forehead. Something flashed across Dutch's face, he would've thought fear if he hadn't known him better, and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he got the chance, John pulled the trigger. Hot tears pricked at his eyes in stark contrast to the cold rain dripping down his face. With a choked sob, he pushed himself to the side and scrambled backwards until his back hit the wall. 

He reminded himself that this was unavoidable, Dutch would've hunted him to the end of the earth, shattering any hope of peace in his life. It was true, but that didn't stop the crushing guilt he felt. For the hundredth time, that nagging voice in the back of his head told him that he should've been the one to die. If he hadn't come back, he thought miserably, none of this would've happened. He knew that Dutch had been coming undone for a while even before he was sent to the O'Driscolls, that his return only sped up the inevitable, but he couldn't shake that damn voice.

"John?" Arthur's voice sent a jolt through his body. The older man stepped outside and scanned the scene before him, the bodies littering the ground, the blood on John's clothes and hands, then Dutch's lifeless body. "John," he repeated, sitting down beside him.

"I didn't have any choice, he snuck up on me in the storm and I didn't have a chance to wake you two. He had this whole story planned out to win everyone back, make it look like I killed myself. He's tried to kill me so many fucking times, Arthur, I just-"

"Marston!" Arthur cut him off, raising his voice only slightly. "You did what you had to do, okay? We're alive and safe and getting out of this because of you. I reckon all those times I had to come in and save your life were well worth it because you saved all of ours, John."

That was what did him in, that inexplicable gratitude. John let Arthur pull him into his chest and cried until he couldn't cry anymore. He didn't know if it was more grief or relief that poured out of him, but it had been building for months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending Dutch deserved a mon avi


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I have been a Busy Bitch with writer's block to boot 😪 but it's Christmas and I had to get this out to move things along so happy holidays, y'all!
> 
> you guys can find me on tumblr (arumorfromgroundcontrol) if you have any requests for future work!

Arthur felt a pain in his chest that he saw reflected in John's eyes when he settled down. However nasty things had gotten in the end, he knew neither of them had wanted it to come to this. He couldn't even imagine the mess that had to be raging in the younger man's head, having just killed the closest thing he ever had to a father. The one who saved him from being lynched as a child, who raised him for the better part of two decades, who gave him a home and a family, until he simply couldn't control him anymore. Despite everything, it wasn't hate that he felt toward Dutch. He couldn't hate him after all he did for him, and he knew John felt similarly. The poor kid would've stayed loyal until it killed him, given the chance. Nearly did anyway. It was how they'd been raised, to value loyalty and family above all else. Now that was gone and it left Arthur with a strange combination of relief and sorrow.

"I- I'm sorry, Arthur." John's voice broke under the emotional strain. Arthur wanted to wring that damned self-deprecation out of him.

"Don't you do that, John. Don't you go blaming this mess on yourself," he said sternly, "This ain't anyone's fault but Dutch's. We'd have so many more dead, better folk than him, if you hadn't made us see sense. You did what you had to do to protect yourself and your family. I know it hurts, but I'm proud of you, kid."

John sniffed and straightened his back, pulling out of his arms. "We gotta bury him," he rasped, barely more than a whisper. 

So the next morning, that's what they did. Charles seemed indifferent about it, but clearly understood their situation and readily helped them dig through the mud. There wasn't anything to be said when they finished the burial and stuck a crude headstone into the ground. He saw John sway on his feet, buy didn't comment on it.

The rest of the day was spent packing and traveling, this time at a more manageable pace. They stopped once and cooked a wild turkey that Charles had killed on the road. It stayed mostly quiet since they were all wrapped up in their own heads. He wished he could sit John down and let him vent all the angst that darkened his eyes from their usual deep brown to a cold black. It hurt him to see the man in so much turmoil, he hadn't seen it this bad since he got back from his year alone. Even then, he'd lashed out like a trapped animal at everything that moved, spitting and kicking until he finally calmed and the cycle started back over. Somehow that had been better than this quiet suffering that practically radiated off of him. They were two different kinds of guilt, neither of them warranted, but both all too typical of John goddamn Marston. 

After a few hours, they arrived at their new camp and were greeted by a loud commotion. People clammered with questions that simply couldn't be answered. He did his best to give roundabout responses until they went off to do whatever it was they did all day. Most of them bought the half-answers as good enough, but Hosea lingered behind. The older man knew him well enough to recognize when he was bullshitting.

"You boys like like you've seen a ghost," he stated warily, eyes flitting between Arthur and John.

He wracked his brain for the right thing to say, but John beat him to it. "We need to talk, but not here." His voice was low and pained, but he kept it steady. He watched Hosea follow him to the edge of the camp, away from prying eyes and listening ears. Part of him was glad that he didn't have to be the one to have that conversation with the older man. 

Charles was watching him carefully, not speaking until he caught his eye. "I know how hard this is going to be on the three of you," he said gently, "But I'm here if there's anything I can do."

He nodded his thanks and wandered off to find his tent, not feeling quite up to talking to anyone. Miss Grimshaw pointed him in the right direction, off toward a pond at one end of their setup. He'd managed to get the most important of his things packed up in time, what had been left could be easily replaced. His collection of photos sat neatly on a small table next to his journal, most of them moved with him just out of habit. Or maybe he was sentimental. Either way, they were always the first things he packed when they moved. Sitting on the edge of his cot, he flipped through them. The ones of his parents were the oldest, frayed around the edges and starting to yellow with age. There was the one they'd told Charles about of him and Dutch and Hosea in 1885 that sent a pang of grief through his chest. Things had been so much simpler then. The next one was dated in 1890, on John's seventeenth birthday. Hosea had snapped it when the two of them were drunkenly dancing around a roaring fire. Dutch stood behind them with a disapproving look on his face, one that was ingrained in his memory even without a picture to remind him of it. The rest were ones he'd taken himself, some of the mountains or lakes or animals, some of gang members when they weren't paying attention. One of Mary-Beth writing her book, of Tilly washing clothes, Charles making his fancy arrows, Javier talking to Lenny beside the fire, Karen and Sadie ganging up on John. 

Most of them had come along when they jumped ship, particularly the girls. They'd lost Bill and Strauss, Molly and Abigail too when he thought about it, the rest who stayed behind were newcomers that he couldn't even identify by name. No one knew where Trelawny had gotten off to. He'd honestly been surprised at the number of them in the new camp and wondered if they would think differently if they knew how it had gone down with Dutch in the end.

The setup wasn't a permanent solution, more a jumping off point for people to figure out what they wanted to do. He could venture a guess at what some of them would decide, but for himself? Life outside the law was all he'd ever know and that life seemed to be at its end. The world had changed when he wasn't paying attention, moved on from the little he knew about what it meant to be civilized. Civilization meant fancy clothes, big cities, and big government now. His options were limited by his lack of experience, especially at his age. There was always bounty hunting, but getting involved with the law this soon was a risk. He figured he could get by on a ranch somewhere, far away from the bustle and noise of the city. What little he knew how to do, aside from robbing and killing, revolved around raising animals. It was the only thing he could thank his father for. The question he was most afraid to ask was whether John would come with him. He knew he could find something to make of himself, but the thought of doing it alone sent cold tendrils down his spine.

°°°

The weight of Hosea's gaze made John distinctly uncomfortable. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was around, not ready to make this public knowledge just yet. 

"John, please," he all but begged, dread sneaking into his tone. "I have a feeling I know what you're going to tell me but..." He trailed off.

"I'm real sorry, Hosea. You know I never wanted any of this." He fought to keep speak around the lump in his throat. "Dutch came back before we left, tried to put a bullet in my head. We got out of there by the skin of our teeth. I don't know how none of us were shot. We camped out at this abandoned shack so they wouldn't follow us back here, tried to lose them but... Well Dutch and some his his guys showed up in the middle of that storm." Breathe, Marston, he scolded himself. "He had this whole story planned out about how he'd tell everyone that I'd offed myself and left a note saying I was workin' with the O'Driscolls. He was going to kill me, Hosea, he- I didn't have any other choice. Even if we'd gotten away, he never would've stopped looking. He'd gone mad..." Hosea dropped his head into his hands and sighed shakily. John thought the guilt in his stomach might eat him alive. "We buried him this morning. I can show you the spot." It felt like he needed to say more, but there wasn't much else. "He was more of a parent to me than my pa ever was, saved my life and raised me like family. You both did."

"I know, son." The older man didn't move aside from the faint tremble in his shoulders. "I need a minute, please." 

John didn't know what to do, so he stood and dragged himself away. He ignored the voices calling his name and walked through the camp, wandering through the trees until he reached a clearing. An expanse of overgrown grass spanned a few dozen feet and ended at a rocky cliff overlooking a deep canyon. He settled himself on the rocks with his legs hanging over the edge. The sun was too bright for a day so somber. "Well, John, you've really fucked things up this time," he muttered to himself. No assurances that things would be okay this time. No 'last big hit' to magically fix the mess he made. So what now? People would buck up and move on eventually, likely leaving him in the dust. That was fine, though. As long as what remained of his family was safe, he at least be able to sleep at night. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, letting the nicotine flood his system and calm his shaking limbs. He'd understand if Arthur walked with the rest of them, the man deserved a shot at peace without him following him around like a lost puppy. It would hurt like hell, but he'd understand. He wasn't sure what he would, or even could, do when left to his own devices in a world that didn't want him. Hanging would be less than ideal, damn near anything else would suit him fine. It would take at least a few years for the bounty on his head to die off, so he'd have to lay low until then. He selfishly hoped that he could keep Arthur at his side, remember all too well how poorly he'd lived when he was on his own for a year. 

"I can hear you self-deprecatin' from a mile away, Marston." Speak of the devil. "Thought I told you to knock that off." He dropped himself heavily down next to him, lighting a cigarette of his own.

"I got the right after all this, Morgan," he wanted to snap but it came out soft and he found himself leaning against the larger man, finding some small comfort in his warmth. "Stirred up a real crock of shit." 

Arthur snorted and wrapped an arm around his waist. "I reckon it's more that you're just the unluckiest son of a bitch alive. I'll keep saying it until it gets through the thick skull of yours, you saved all us. You saw how many people are in that camp. They can go on and have their own lives now, do what they want instead of what they have to. I'm sure even Hosea understands, it's just hard on him. Will be for a good while, but he'll come around."

It was probably true, but he would've argued if he'd had the energy. He flicked his cigarette butt down into the canyon as he was suddenly hit by an exhaustion that ran right down to his core, leaving him hardly able hold himself upright. "What now, Arthur? I don't know how to do anything different." 

"We- You'll find something out there, we all will. It's a big country and there's a whole lot of land where no one's even heard of us. I was thinkin'," he paused, something strange flickering in his eyes. "I grew up on a ranch, raising livestock's about the only thing I know how to do. Within the law at least. Ain't exactly a one-man job though."

John's heart thumped in his chest. "That an invitation? I don't know a damn thing about ranching." He was afraid to push his luck, desperately hoping that it was an offer to come with him, but worried about ruining a good thing.

"Hard as you try to act otherwise, you're a fast learner. If you wanted to, err, find someplace that ain't so close to all these cities. I've wanted to head out west for a long time anyway, get some distance from these bounties. If you don't want to-."

John turned and kissed the fool before he could finish the sentence. It felt like it had been ages since he felt those soft lips on his own. Pulling back slightly, he looked into bright blue eyes for any sign that this was motivated by pity, but there was none to be found. "I'd follow you to the end of the earth if I could, Arthur Morgan. You oughta know that by now. It's been about a lifetime since we were anywhere west of the Mississippi."

"A lifetime too long," Arthur agreed and kissed him gently. John could feel the intense emotion behind it, easing the ache in his chest after what had been a rotten excuse for a day. "C'mon, we both need to get some rest." He helped him up and didn't drop his hand until they reached their tent. A few of the girls called out that it was 'about damn time!' and Javier whistled after them, but John frankly didn't give a rat's ass. This was part of his freedom, part of what he'd been fight for, and it really didn't matter what anyone else thought anymore. He kicked off his boots, pulled his shirt over his head, and crawled into bed, letting Arthur pull him against his chest after he did the same. He curled around the man and let sleep take him away.

°°°

The group split apart after two weeks in a strange sort of limbo. Sadie was determined to try her hand at bounty hunting, which John honestly thought was fitting despite the risk, or maybe because of it. Mary-Beth and Tilly caught a train to Saint Denis with some vague plan of writing their way to the top. Karen and Sean went south, Javier and Charles went north, and Lenny went someplace to get an education. Most of it was pretty predictable, and it was definitely for the best, but it stung to watch his family filter out of his life, not knowing if he'd ever see them again. Arthur read in a paper about a cheap plot of land out west and their only plan for the time being was to make their way to it. Uncle had insisted on coming with them on account of his lumbago and confirmed John's suspicion that he would never know peace. Goddamn freeloading old coot. Somewhere under the frustration though, he knew the company would be welcome. If nothing else, it would give him and Arthur someone to antagonize besides each other.

Packing was almost second nature at this point, but it helped that they didn't have much to move. The three of them and Hosea were the only ones left in the camp, and the quiet was weighed on him as he threw bags together. Arthur was talking the the older man, but they were just far enough away that he couldn't hear. He figured that was probably by design and resisted the urge to join them. Their tent was broken down when Arthur walked back over to help him load it up, just barely shaking his head. 

"What?" he asked, trying not to sound indignant. The sun was beating down with intensity that seemed a bit much for early spring. His hair and shirt were stubbornly stuck to the sweat that rolled down his skin. Maybe it was that heat and discomfort making him cranky, but he'd been snapping at Uncle all afternoon and just barely avoiding the same with Arthur.

"Nothin', dumbass, cool it! I would've helped you with the tent if you'd waiting ten seconds." He laughed gently and John swatted away the hand going to ruffle his hair.

"It's too damn hot, Arthur. I always think I want it to be hot when it's cold but nope. This ain't any better than freezing my ass off," he grumbled and tied the tent onto one of the horses, apologizing her for the added weight.

"You got too much hair for it," Arthur chuckled, slicking said hair back from his face and wrestling it into an elastic. John mumbled complaints but didn't fight him. "So. Hosea's comin' with us." Oh. They'd been doing better lately, and he couldn't blame the man for harboring some resentment. He was more surprised than anything by the news.

"His idea or yours?"

"Mine, but he said he'd been thinking about it. Just wanted to let you know. He'd not mad at you, John." He knew Arthur was being honest because the man was a terrible liar.

"I know he ain't mad, but he also ain't happy with me. If he says it's fine then I guess it is," he conceded, not wanting to argue about this and really hoping it would be okay.

Hosea didn't say much when they rode out. John kept up his fighting with Uncle until Arthur threatened them both with bodily harm if they didn't shut up. After that, it stayed quiet. It really was fucking hot, too hot to put energy into much other than riding. They kept a steady pace and tried not to overwork their horses under the weight of their things and the glaring sun. A few hours in, Uncle fell off his horse.

John swore under his breath and slid out of his saddle, half wanting to just leave him there in the dirt. "Uncle! Chrissakes, man, can't even keep yourself sat up?"

Uncle just grunted and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, a glazed look in his eyes. It definitely wasn't sympathy that made him insist that they find some shade and wait until nightfall, maybe pity, probably his own discomfort. Yeah. They kept going until the hit a patch of trees, then hitched the horses and focused on staying hydrated. He wondered if nature had just decided to skip a season and go straight to summer, pretty sure he'd overheard someone say once that winter and spring tended to blur together. Weird thing to hear someone say, he'd thought, but it sure as shit seemed to be true.

He was sweaty and sticky and his clothes were wet and it was just all around disgusting and uncomfortable. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he could see how the heat had gotten to Uncle. The man was also desperately out of shape, which probably didn't help. Arthur suddenly cursed loudly and pulled his damp shirt over his head, balling it up and throwing it. He and Hosea didn't look much better than John felt, red in the face and obviously groggy. 

"I ain't sure if I've ever been this sticky," Arthur growled, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"Or violently uncomfortable," Hosea added, having decided that the need to complain outweighed his wanting to stay silent, "It's good we stopped." 

John just nodded, finding that he couldn't exactly agree. Something dark and twisted at the back of his mind reminded him that this was actually a far cry from the worst he'd ever felt. Scowling, he shoved that thought down and tried to ignore the dull ache in his bones that came with the memories. "It should cool off when the sun goes down, nothing to do but try to rest until then."

Uncle fell asleep disturbingly quickly in a heap on the grass. The snoring was irritating but it beat the blathering when he felt compelled to fill the silence around them. Arthur went down next, laid out with one arm behind his head and his hat pulled down over his face to block the sun. Somehow, his exposed chest tanned without burning, a luxury John never had. His arms were already burnt from the ride and he was sure his face was at least a little bit pink. He wished he could see his face, knowing the way sleep wiped away the hard lines of stress and concentration. Instead, he watched the deep ebb and flow of breath in his chest, trying not to be too obvious about admiring the muscle that rippled under his skin with every movement. A deep thrum of emotion rippled through his body, love and lust and the need to protect.

Hosea cleared his throat, jerking his attention to the older man. He'd been watching him intently with an almost pained look on his face. "I had a hunch for many years, my boy. Dutch always told me it would fade between you two with time, but he never was much of an expert on the human condition."

John felt his face heat up, definitely not from any sunburn either. "Wasn't much of an option in talkin' about it, was there? Dutch told me once... I think it was on my birthday, now that I think about it, a couple years after I joined you guys. He err, made it pretty clear that he thought I was just young and dumb and didn't know what I wanted. Said I should back off for a while, let Arthur do what he wanted. He didn't threaten nothin' but he gave me a piece of his mind on 'unnatural inclinations'." He coughed a laugh at the memory. Dutch had been seething, white hot and unrelenting. He'd tried to explain that he wasn't going to do anything and got a fist to the jaw for the effort. There hadn't been much to do besides try to listen through the ringing in his ears to what had clearly been building for a while, until Dutch evidently hit a breaking point.

"I remember," Hosea shook his head. "Not to say you weren't young and dumb, but he didn't go about that in the right way. I told him that and he didn't speak to me for three days. What's important is that you're both happy, and I know you are. I suppose my point here is that I understand, son. It took a lot of looking back to really see how much he did to you, that this wasn't a sudden change, and that you did the only thing you could. I'm not mad at you, John. I never was. I just had to reconcile the fact that I'd just lost someone I thought I'd known most of my life, and that maybe I never really knew him at all." 

John didn't have the first idea what to say to that, so he settled on a choked "Thank you," and "I'm sorry". He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, not having known that understanding was what he'd been looking for these past weeks. The sun was still sweltering and he was still a sweaty mess, but he felt so much better. Enough so, apparently, that he was able to fall asleep despite the heat and sweat and the fact that he was still sitting up against the scratchy trunk of a tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John gets cranky when he's hot  
> Dutch is a dicc
> 
> questions/comments/concerns? you've all been so sweet and I just wanted to say thanks for sticking with me on this 💕


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut and a nauseatingly fluffy ending that took me approx. 80 years to get out of my brain I am,,,,,, so sorry

The ranch Arthur had scoped out was far from perfect, and he'd be the first to admit it. It was a stretch of rough land, but not from lack of potential. He figured it had just gone too long without anyone working on it. Everything was overgrown except for the cabin dead-smack in the middle of the property. It was likely only meant for two, maybe three, people, so it would be real close quarters for a while. They'd lived in worse conditions though, and a little proximity never killed anyone.

He'd been surprised by how quickly the other men fell into the work, doing as they were told and trusting that he knew more than they did. Uncle was the exception, of course. He didn't do much besides complain and try to justify laziness with whatever affliction was ailing him at the time. All they could really do was let him be, letting him cook and clean up indoors while they wrestled the land into a suitable condition for livestock.

Hosea went to town to look into getting some cattle and chickens once they'd straightened the place out. It had taken a few days of cleaning out the barn and coops then prepping them as needed, but they made it happen. All things considered, he was happy with how it had been going and the progress they'd made. Even the cabin was in better shape, mostly out of Uncle's vanity. They had real beds and furniture moved into what little space there was, and it was cozy in a cramped-but-comfortable sort of way. Arthur couldn't seem to get used to sleeping on a mattress after all those years on bedrolls, but it wasn't anything he would complain about.

He'd settled himself in a chair on the porch to wait for Hosea to come back, letting his mind wander. The adjustment period was as much of a bitch as he'd expected. It was hard to kick the inherent paranoia of hiding from the law or the itch to go and just take the money they needed from people who could afford to lose it. He knew the others were struggling with it too, Uncle and Hosea somehow less than John and himself. John more than any of them. He hadn't seen the man take two seconds to relax since they'd arrived, always flitting between chores or off hunting or really anything to fill the time. Deep down, Arthur understood the need to stay preoccupied, and he knew that John had more reason than any of them to be afraid of what his idle mind would throw at him.

In all the chaos of the last months, the entire O'Driscoll ordeal had been more or less swept aside to be dealt with later. John had done exceptionally well dealing with that trauma, but the little tics he'd developed still showed themselves from time to time. He still froze sometimes at being touched, at certain words, smells, sounds. Every flinch away from him made Arthur's heart break for the younger man. As far as he could tell, the flashbacks he'd tried so hard to hide were dying down, coming on only when triggered instead of entirely at random. The nightmares, though, still jerked him awake at all hours in a cold sweat several nights a week. It was getting better though, slowly but surely.

What had every right to be a lazy afternoon instead had John lugging around bales of hay for the horses. Arthur shook his head as he watched the man try to work himself to death, far overdressed for the sweltering heat with his hair pulled into a messy bun. It had been a good while since he'd seen John without a shirt on his back, but he knew well the sculpted muscle that rippled underneath the fabric, the flush that spread across his chest when he worked, the angular bends of his frame. He watched until he couldn't blame the heat under his own collar on the sun, thinking of several other ways to stay occupied. Hosea would be gone for a while, Uncle was nowhere to be found, and it really had been a good while.

"Marston!" he called out, getting only a grunt in response. "Come get yourself out of the sun, dumbass! You got all day to have a heat stroke if that's what you're aiming for."

John scowled and grumbled but dropped the bale to the dirt and joined him on the porch, dropping into a chair with sweat glistening on his brow. "You reckon it'll ever cool off?" he asked as he wiped his face on his sleeve. "Or are we all just damned to spent the rest of our lives in this until we drown in our own sweat?"

"I think you just like complaining," Arthur chuckled and dodged an elbow. "It ain't so bad, princess. You might be a bit, err, overdressed for it though. That can't help the situation."

He couldn't truly tell if the red across John's cheeks was a sunburn or a blush, but let himself believe it was the latter. "I guess I might be," his voice came out low and something shifted in his expression.

"Well we've got some time to kill, don't we? If you're lookin' to change that."

John seemed to consider for a second before something between a smile and a smirk settled on his face. All at once, he was out of his chair and situated on Arthur lap with his knees on either sides of his hips, leaning forward until they were practically breathing the same air. "I thought you'd never ask," he said in that deep, gravelly voice that sent goosebumps across Arthur's skin. Arthur took a breath and curled a hand around the back of John's neck, closing the few inches of distance between them. John kissed him with an edge of desperation that made their teeth clash, biting Arthur's lip and gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. It was precisely what he needed. Then hips shifted and  _oh_ , it had been far too long.

The modicum of friction drew a rumbling groan from John and that was that. Arthur pulled back, breathing shakily, and hauled himself upright. John honest to God yelped and wrapped his legs around the larger man's waist before he fell to the ground. The mouth nibbling his neck made it difficult, but Arthur managed to to get them through the cabin and into his bedroom before dropping John onto the bed. Sprawled out on his back, his lips were red and swollen, pupils blown, breathing ragged. Arthur crawled up the mattress and sat on John's thighs, etching the sight into his memory. With all the reverence the moment was due, he unbuttoned that terrible red shirt and exposed a lean but heavily muscled torso that he hadn't seen in weeks. John must have tanned through his clothes somehow because his skin glowed golden-brown, making every scar stand out bright and white. He traced a few of them gently and felt the shiver that rippled through the man, taking care to also watch for any sign of discomfort. Finished with the buttons, Arthur let his hands rest at the waistband of John's pants and took the opportunity to suck a bruise into his neck. John squirmed and grumbled something about possessiveness, but seemed largely unbothered, bucking his hips in search of more contact. That grumbling caught in his throat with a hitched breath when Arthur pressed a palm gently against his erection.

Arthur smiled, evidently having found a time-efficient way to cut off his complaining. "Cat got your tongue, Johnny?" he asked, unbuttoning and unzipping the pants that were increasingly getting on his nerves. When he got no reply, he went to work mouthing his way across his chest, rolling nipples between his teeth to hear the gasp that followed, and frankly unfair abs. John whined when he stopped so in one tug, he pushed both his pants and drawers down around his knees, letting his kick the offending cloth the rest of the way off. With free access, he lowered himself down the bed, feeling John watch him. 

He saw no reason no beat around the bush, no pun intended, and licked a line from base to tip along the underside of John's dick. John moaned softly, quieter than Arthur expected, but snapped his hips up in counterbalance. Arthur was happy to take the hint, wrapping his lips around the head and swirling his tongue around the tip before  _slowly_ working his way down. He shifted one hand under John's ass and squeezed, getting a sharp thrust down his throat in reward. 

"Arthur," John managed in a beautifully distressed tone. Arthur lifted up to see the man propped up on his elbows, watching him intently. "I- fuck. Arthur I need..."

"What do you need?"

"Fuck you. I need you. I- please, Jesus, Arthur I  _need_ you." He was clearly fighting a losing battle for words, dropping back onto the mattress and throwing an arm across his face.

Arthur knew, of course, but he wanted to hear it. "Where do you need me, Johnny?" He slicked a few fingers with his own spit and trailed them along his crack, feeling around until he hit home. "Here?" he asked, pressing against the tight ring of muscle but not breaching it. 

"God _dammit_ , yes there!" John's voice broke and he squirmed for more of anything. "Please Arthur I can't-" The words broke off into a high keen as Arthur pushed a finger inside him, slow as molasses. Arthur crooked his finger a few times before adding a second, reveling in the fire-hot tightness around them. He diligently and methodically stretched and scissored the younger man open, two fingers became three and then he brushed a spot that made John arch up off the bed with a shout. Trying (and failing) not to feel too smug, he massaged that same spot until John was reduced to shaking and sweating and  _begging_.

Arthur withdrew his fingers carefully and worked his own pants off, freeing his own straining erection, leaking with anticipation. He grabbed a tin of oil and slicked himself with it before crawling back up the bed and kissing John fervently. After a second of adjustment, Arthur lined himself up, met John's eyes, and pushed inside that scorching heat. John let out a breathy stream of praise intermingled with creative swearing until Arthur bottomed out, forcing himself to be still while the man beneath him adjusted. After maybe ten seconds, John growled, "Fuckin' move already!" And move he did. He pulled almost all the way out and snapped his hips forward, then repeated the long, slow movement until his body wouldn't let him anymore. John cried out every few thrusts, writhing and covered in a sheen of sweat. It made Arthur's chest ache. After so much time, he knew neither of them would last long, but that was okay. He wrapped a hand around John's dick and jerked him off in time with his thrusts, crushing their mouths together when fireworks exploded behind his eyes.

Arthur's vision went white for a few seconds and he collapsed on top of John, trying to stabilize his breathing. He was distantly aware of John laughing about something. Before he could ask what, he found himself falling asleep.

"Arthur?" a soft voice broke through a vivid dream about something or other, it had been forgotten as soon as he roused. He cracked his eyes open to John laid out next to him, hair a mess and eyes bright. It was something he could get very used to. The sky outside had gone dark, he hadn't meant to sleep so long but it didn't really matter. "Hosea just got back, we probably oughta go scrounge up some food."

He thought that moment felt strangely domestic and was happy to relax into the feeling. They two of them pulled on pants, Arthur noted with a smile that John had foregone a shirt, and drifted into the kitchen. Uncle and Hosea were sitting at the table fuming at each other. When they walked into the room, Uncle whirled on them.

"You two!" he exclaimed loudly, waving a finger at Arthur and then at John. "I don't give a damn what happens behind closed door any more than the next guy, but Chrissakes  _please_ keep it down next time!" Arthur's jaw dropped, but John laughed beside him and slapped Uncle on the back.

"Ain't like I never heard either of you before," he said, fixing Hosea with a pointed look. The older man raised his hands, looking sheepish. "Uncle, I happen to know that you squeal more than any girl you've ever had." 

Arthur was shocked to see actual shame wash over Uncle's face, but was more interested in how and when John had gotten that tidbit. He tucked it away to ask about later. 

"I met a woman with a ranch, she's willing to sell us some cattle," Hosea offered in order to change the subject. "We can probably have this place up and running in just a few weeks." 

Arthur nodded and looked around the tiny room. Uncle was still red in the face, trying to hide it by shoveling food into his mouth. Hosea had a newspaper open in front of him and a pen in hand, his attention divided between work talk and what was likely a crossword puzzle. John had found himself a cup of coffee and stood at his side, leaning into him with a small smile on his face. It wasn't a situation he ever could've dreamt up for himself, but after months of living through hell, he was happy where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed this and don't hold the amorphous ending against me!!! feel free to dm me on tumblr (arumorfromgroundcontrol) if you have any prompts you want to see. you've all been so sweet tysm <3


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